<v 


I    MYSELF 


MRS.  T.   P.   O'CONNOR 

FROM    A   DRAWING    BY   \V.    STRANK3 


I    MYSELF 


BY 

MRS  T.  P.  O'CONNOR 


WITH   FOURTEEN   ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

1911 


TO 

W.  GRAHAM  ROBERTSON 

IN   APPRECIATION  OF  THE   HAPPINESS  AND   PR1DK 
HE   HAS   GIVEN   ME 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PACK 

I.  MY  FIRST  MEMORY  i 
II.  A  FIRST  FAMILY  OF  VIRGINIA        ...           6 

III.  MY  FATHER             .            .            .  .  .n 

IV.  MY  TERRIBLE  SECRET         .            .  .  .16 
V.  IN  TRUTH  LIES  FREEDOM  .            .  .  .20 

VI.  ELEMENTAL  ME       .            .            .  .  .25 

VII.  MY  FATHER  IN  PRISON       .            .  .  .30 

VIII.  MY  FIRST  APPEARANCE  ON  ANY  STAGE  .  .        35 

IX.  AUNT  MARY  THE  ANGEL      .            .  .  -39 

X.  MY  MOTHER'S  DEATH          .            .  .  -45 

XI.  FOR  LOVE'S  DEAR  SAKE      .            .  .  .50 

XII.  MY  REGRET  AT  MY  LACK  OF  EDUCATION  .        59 

XIII.  THE  UGLY  DUCKLING         .            .  .  .65 

XIV.  THE  WORLD'S  DIVINEST  LOVE        .  .  .72 
XV.  MY  FIRST  EMPLOYMENT      .            .  .  .        79 

XVI.  LOVE  MEANS  SACRIFICE       .  85 

XVII.  A  NOBLE  LIFE         .....        88 

XVIII.  THE  JOY  OF  GIVING           .            .  .  .92 

XIX.  AN  UNQUIET  GHOST            .            .  .  .99 

XX.  MY  BELOVED  MARY             .            .  .  .104 

XXI.  THE  MAKING  OF  A  JOURNALIST       .  .  .109 

XXII.  A  CHANGE  OF  OCCUPATION             .  .  .115 

XXIII.  LOVING  MEMORIES  .  120 


viii  I  MYSELF 

CHAP. 

XXIV.  BRER   RABBIT   AS  THE  THERMOMETER   OF   MY 
AFFECTIONS  .... 

XXV.  THE  DOMESTIC  PROBLEM  SOLVED.     BRIGIT,  THE 
JEWEL  OF  THE  WORLD 

XXVI.  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  NUN 
XXVII.  I  BECOME  ENGAGED      .... 
XXVIII.  A  SHIPWRECK — LEAVING  MY  FRIENDS 
XXIX.  I  GET  MARRIED  .... 

XXX.  THE  UNPOPULARITY  OF  IRISH  POLITICS 
XXXI.  MY  MYTHICAL  REPUTATION 
XXXII.  MY  FAITHFULLEST  FRIEND — MAX 

XXXIII.  IN  GERMANY — DAILY  LETTERS  FROM  T.  P.     . 

XXXIV.  "  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM,"  AND  GEORGE 

AUGUSTUS  SALA      .... 

XXXV.  RED  INDIANS  AND  THE  MAZE  . 
XXXVI.  IN  GERMANY  IT  is  THE  LAW    . 

XXXVII.    SHIPS   THAT   PASS    IN   THE   BROAD    DAYLIGHT       . 

XXXVIII.  THE    MEMBER    FOR  SCOTLAND   DIVISION   AND 
THE  UNCROWNED  KING 

XXXIX.  THE  BIRTH  OF  "THE  STAR"    . 

XL.  MY  FIRE-ESCAPE  FLIGHT.     BRILLIANT  LETTERS 
FROM  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

XLI.  A  "STAR"  PARTY.     THE  SHIRT  OF  CHARLES 
I.,  AND  NORWAY     .... 
XLII.  A  FRAGRANT  PRECIPICE 

XLIII.  THE  LOST  LEADER        .... 
XLIV.  AN  OLD-WORLD  HOUSE  IN  CHELSEA  . 
XLV.  FROM  MY  LETTER  BOOK 
XLVI.  A  LONG  AGO  MEMORY  OF  LISZT 
XLVII.  MY  DEBT  OF  GRATITUDE  TO  A  GROUP  OF  AUTHORS 


CONTENTS  ix 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XLVIII.  MY  STRUGGLE  FOR  INDEPENDENCE       .  .268 

XLIX.  THE  VALLEY  OF  DEATH  .  .  .273 

L.  THE  NURSING  HOME     .  .  .  .277 

LI.  THE  LITTLE  JOYS  OF  LIFE       .  .  .282 

LII.  SATISFYING  SYMPATHY   ....       285 

LIII.  MY  HUMAN  GARDEN     ....       290 

LIV.  HENRY  JAMES,  ELLEN  TERRY,  AND  OLD  LACE       295 

LV.  A  LACE  POCKET  HANDKERCHIEF  AND  ST  JOSEPH     301 

LVI.  FAITHFUL  ENGLISH  KINDNESS  .  .       306 

LVII.  MY    SOUL  is  LARGE   ENOUGH  TO   BEAR  THE 

WEIGHT  OF  GRATITUDE      .  .  .311 

LVI  1 1.  ALL  ABOUT  ROSE  AND  THE  DUTCH  .  .       318 

LIX.  SYMPATHETIC  WAITERS  .  .  .327 

LX.  THE  LEPRECHAUN'S  POT  OF  GOLD  .  -333 

LXI.  MY  STEPMOTHER  FATE  .  .  .  .341 


INDEX    .  ....       349 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

MRS  T.  P.  O'CONNOR  ....       Frontispiece 

From  a  drawing  by  W.  Strong 

FACING   PACK 

"I  AM  AN  ABOLITIONIST"   .  .  .  .  .21 

From  a  drawing  by  Graham  Robertson 

"SHE  is  ALONE  THE  ARABIAN  BIRD"        .  .  .31 

From  a  drawing  by  Graham  Robertson 

A  SERIOUS  CHILD  OF  TWELVE        .  .  .  -59 

IN  THE  DAYS  OF  MY  YOUTH,  A  DEBUTANTE  .  .         74 

DISCREET  TOODIE     .  .  .  .  .  .116 

THE  NUN  OF  THE  VANDERBILT  BALL         .  .  .126 

"YOU  BETTER  HOLLER  FROM  WHARJ  YOU  STAN',  BRER 
WOLF,"  SEZ  BRER  RABBIT,  "  I'M  MONST'OUS  FULL  OF 
FLEAS  DIS  MORNIN'"  .  .  .  .  .128 

From  a  pencil  drawing  by  Sir  F.  Carruthers  Gould 

"NOTHING  BUT  THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS"        .  .       203 

From  a  pencil  drawing  by  Max  Beerbohm 

A  RARE  OCCASION — T.  P.  AT  HOME          .  .  .236 

PlOUS    COAXEY    AT    HIS    PRAYERS         .  .  .  .266 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  &  D.  Downey 

"I'M  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  KING"     ....       282 
"  'Tis  ALMOST  FAIRY  TIME  "  333 

From  a  drawing  by  Graham  Robertson 

THE    LEPRECHAUN    AND   THE   GARDEN   OF    PINKIE   AND 

THE  FAIRIES       ......       338 


I    POUR   LOVE  S   WINE   AND   BID  THE   WORLD   TAKE    PART 
AROUND  THE   PURPLE   ALTARS   OF   MY    HEART." 


I    MYSELF 

CHAPTER  I 

MY    FIRST   MEMORY 

MY  first  memory  is  one  of  pain.  I  was  the  child  of 
a  romantic  love  marriage ;  my  father  was 
desperately  in  love  with  my  mother,  and  she 
with  him.  She  died  of  heart  disease  when  I  was  a  little 
girl  and  he  was  far  away,  but  I  have  never  forgotten  her 
continued  calls  for  him.  Many  years  after,  when  his  voice 
had  grown  weak  from  suffering,  and  he  was  at  the  gates  of 
death,  he  tried  to  raise  himself  from  the  pillow,  and  called 
in  a  loud,  clear  voice  :  "  Marcia  !  Marcia  !  "  then  fell  back 
into  unconsciousness.  Her  beloved  name,  which  he  had  not 
spoken  for  years,  was  the  last  on  his  lips. 

I  have  a  theory  that  the  children  of  two  people  who  love 
profoundly  have  deeper  affections  than  those  whose  parents 
are  indifferent  or  philosophic  towards  each  other  ;  at  any 
rate  I  was  born  with  a  most  loving  heart,  and  even  yet, 
after  years  of  disillusion,  experience  and  trouble,  it  is  still 
in  the  power  of  those  whom  I  love  to  hurt  me  bitterly. 

I  was  an  unexpected  and  delicate  child,  and  was  greatly 
loved,  and  terribly  indulged.  According  to  the  fashion  of 
the  South,  I  had  a  foster-mother,  a  very  black  young  negress 
of  twenty  ;  she  had  already  become  the  mother  of  two  lusty 
little  piccaninnies — shiny,  coal-black,  fat  boys.  I  adored 
my  "  Mammy,"  and  my  adoration  was  returned  a  thousand- 
fold. Love  means  sacrifice  :  this  poor  slave  was  called  upon 
to  make  woman's  supremest  sacrifice  for  her  foster-child, 
and  made  it  with  the  generosity  of  an  entirely  noble  nature. 

My  two  foster-brothers  were  much  indulged  and  spoiled 


2  I  MYSELF 

by  my  father,  who  loved  all  children,  white  or  black.  They 
were  continually  in  the  front  garden,  rooting  up  flowers  (my 
mother  was  a  passionate  gardener),  throwing  stones  at  the 
chickens,  and  doing  other  damage.  At  any  rate,  my  mother, 
who  had  been  born  and  brought  up  to  slavery  and  its  in- 
justice as  a  matter  of  course  (I  was  literally  born  detesting 
it,  and  I  may  say  detesting  all  injustice),  influenced  my 
father  to  sell  my  negro  Mammy  and  her  two  children  to  a 
woman  who  lived  twenty-five  miles  from  Austin  in  a  little 
town  called  Bastrop. 

I  woke  up  one  morning  with  a  sweet-faced  Irish  nurse, 
whom  I  grew  to  love  very  fondly  afterwards,  and  who  lived 
with  us  for  five  or  six  years  (she  is  now  a  rich  woman  and 
the  mother  of  a  prospective  bishop),  but  she  was  a  stranger, 
and  I  was  told  that  Mammy  was  gone.  I  immediately 
dissolved  into  tears  and  wailings,  and  for  a  fortnight  I  cried 
out  by  day  and  by  night  :  "  I  want  my  Mammy — I  want 
my  Mammy !  "  Toys  were  given  to  me,  new  dolls,  I  was 
allowed  to  choose  my  own  dresses  and  sashes  every  day,  but 
nothing  in  this  world  mattered  to  me — neither  dolls,  nor 
candy,  nor  ribbons.  I  was  perfectly  consistent,  and  I  dare- 
say must  have  wearied  everybody  out  with  my  continual 
cry  :  "  I  want  my  Mammy — I  want  my  Mammy  !  "  Mary, 
my  nurse,  said  to  me  :  "  Now,  will  you  have  the  pink  dress 
or  the  white  dress  ?  "  I  looked  at  the  pink  and  white 
dresses  through  a  rain  of  tears,  and  answered,  "  I  want  my 
Mammy — I  want  my  Mammy  !  "  Finally  I  cried  myself 
into  a  high  fever  ;  the  old  family  doctor  was  sent  for,  and 
came  jogging  along  on  a  fat  white  horse  with  saddle-bags  on 
each  side,  as  was  the  custom  in  the  country  then  ;  he  came 
in  the  nursery  and  asked  :  "  What  is  the  matter  with  the 
little  girl  ?  "  in  a  tone  so  kind  and  sympathetic  that  I  fairly 
wailed  in  anguish  :  "  I  want  my  Mammy — I  want  my 
Mammy  !  I  must  have  my  Mammy  !  "  The  doctor  loved 
children,  and  when  my  father  said  :  "  What  are  we  going 
to  do  with  this  child,  doctor  ?  "  he  shook  his  head  and 
answered,  "  You  know,  Judge,  she  is  very  delicate,  she  is 
now  in  a  high  fever ;  her  nurse  tells  me  that  she  has  taken 


MY  FIRST  MEMORY  3 

scarcely  any  nourishment  for  the  last  week — she  is  literally 
starving  from  grief." 

"  I  want  my  Mammy — I  want  my  Mammy  !  " 

The  old  doctor  put  his  hand  tenderly  on  my  head  and 
said,  "  I  really  think  there  is  nothing  for  it,  Judge,  except  to 
buy  her  Mammy  back  again." 

"  Very  well,"  my  father  answered,  "  I  don't  care  what  it 
costs— I'll  do  it." 

I  was  only  four,  not  old  enough  to  understand  all  the 
conversation,  difficult  to  convince  of  Mammy's  return,  and 
that  day  I  refused  to  eat  altogether.  When  the  shadows 
were  at  their  longest  in  the  afternoon,  my  mother  had  per- 
suaded me  to  go  into  the  dining-room,  an  immense  room 
with  six  long  windows  and  two  doors.  I  had  not  touched 
a  morsel  of  food  the  entire  day.  She  opened  the  doors  of  a 
cupboard  which  contained  cream,  and  curds  and  whey,  and 
cakes,  and  jellies,  and  preserves  of  all  kinds,  for  my  mother 
was  a  famous  cook  and  noted  housekeeper,  and  she  began  : 

"  Now,  if  you  would  like  a  little  peach  preserve  and  a 
little  cream  you  can  have  it." 

"  I  want  my  Mammy,"  I  said. 

"Or  if  you  would  like  a  little  cake  and  some  milk  you 
can  have  that." 

"  I  want  my  Mammy." 

"  Oh,  do,"  she  said,  "  be  reasonable,  and  try  just  a  little 
bit  of  honey  and  some  clabber."  (Milk  with  cream  on  the 
top,  which  turns  sour  in  a  hot  country  in  perhaps  less  than 
an  hour — it  has  a  slightly  acid  taste,  and  is  delicious.) 
"  Take  some  clabber,"  she  said. 

"  I  want  my  Mammy — I  want  my  Mammy  !  " 

Suddenly  a  long  ray  of  sunlight  fell  through  the  door  ; 
I  turned,  and  there,  with  the  tears  running  down  her  dusty 
face,  exhausted,  travel-stained  and  bareheaded  except  for 
her  many-coloured  head-handkerchief,  stood  my  Mammy. 
I  gave  one  wild  cry  of  delight,  rushed  towards  her,  and  she 
gathered  me  in  her  black,  strong  arms. 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  I've  got  my  Mammy  !  I've  got  my 
Mammy  !  "  And  I  began  to  pat  her  black  cheeks  and  kiss 


4  I  MYSELF 

her  all  over  her  face.  Then  I  tucked  my  head  in  her  neck 
and  almost  fainted  with  joy. 

"  Why,  Hester,"  I  heard  my  mother  say,  "  where  have 
you  come  from  ?  " 

"  Miss  Marcia,"  she  answered,  "  I  have  runned  away. 
Ever  since  I  left  my  white  chile  I've  had  awful  dreams — I 
thought  she  was  dyin'  an'  I  could  hear  her  cryin'  for  me,  an' 
cryin'  for  me,  an'  cryin'  for  me,  an'  I  know'd  she  wuz  jus' 
breakin'  her  po'  little  heart — de  chile  got  so  much  heart — 
an'  las'  night  at  eleven  o'clock  I  got  out  of  bed,  stole  out  of 
the  niggers'  quarters,  and  since  then  I  have  walked  twenty- 
five  miles  in  de  sun.  I've  had  nothin'  to  eat  or  drink — I 
felt  my  baby  wuz  dyin',  an'  I  jus'  kep'  on  an'  kep'  on  till  I 
got  here." 

And  about  everything  Mammy  possessed  an  extraordinary 
prophetic  instinct. 

The  next  day,  when  we  were  all  less  emotional,  my  father 
spoke  to  her  and  said,  "  Hester,  I  am  going  down  to  Bastrop 
to  buy  you  and  your  children  back  again." 

He  went  and  found  the  woman  who  had  bought  Mammy 
obdurate  ;  she  said  the  children  were  valuable,  they  were 
healthy  boys,  and  she  had  got  them  very  cheap — that 
Hester  was  lazy  and  he  could  buy  her  back  if  he  liked,  but 
no  price  would  induce  her  to  part  with  the  children. 

My  father  returned,  bringing  the  bad  news.  "  Well, 
Hester,"  he  said,  "  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  am  afraid  you 
have  got  to  decide  between  my  child  and  your  boys.  I 
won't  buy  you  back  and  separate  you  from  your  children 
without  your  own  consent." 

She  took  the  night  to  think  it  over,  and  then  she  gave  her 
decision,  saying :  "  Judge,  Betty's  a  terrible,  nervous, 
delicate  chile,  an'  I  think  it  would  kill  her  if  I  left  her  ;  them 
little  niggers  of  mine  are  strong  healthy  children — they'll 
grow  up  anyhow — so  I  have  decided  to  stay  with  my  white 
chile." 

From  that  moment  I  was  her  bond-slave  much  more  than 
she  was  ever  mine.  If  I  did  not  want  to  do  anything  Mammy 
had  only  to  say  :  "I  might  have  know'd  this.  I  done  give 


MY  FIRST  MEMORY  5 

up  my  own  childern  for  you,  an'  here  you're  treatin'  me 
without  any  respec'."  And  whatever  it  was,  whether 
reasonable  or  not,  I  at  once  did  her  bidding.  As  I  grew 
older  I  can  remember  my  mother  saying  :  "If  you  want 
Betty  to  do  anything,  get  Hester  to  ask  her." 

That  was  my  first  memory,  my  first  grief,  and  my  first 
responsibility.     Surely  life  began  with  me  too  soon. 


CHAPTER  II 

A    FIRST   FAMILY    OF   VIRGINIA 

MY  great-grandfather,  Major  Duval,  a  proud  and 
very  elegant,  dressy  old  gentleman  of  the  old 
regime,  was,  according  to  the  history  of  Virginia, 
the  last  man  in  Richmond  who  wore  satin  small-clothes  and 
a  bag  wig.  His  ancestors  were  two  brothers  of  aristocratic 
family  and  considerable  fortune  who  came  to  America  from 
Rouen.  One  of  the  (I  think  feeble)  jokes  of  the  family  was, 
that  we  had  come  from  Rouen,  and  we  were  going  back  to 
ruin — for  we  were  as  a  family  both  unceasingly  hospitable 
and  thoughtlessly  extravagant.  My  grandfather,  on  my 
father's  side — also  of  French  Huguenot  extraction — had 
been  a  shopkeeper,  and  this  was  considered  a  terrible  blot 
on  the  family  escutcheon.  No  Duval  had  ever  even  scented 
trade.  My  mother,  the  proudest  and  most  intolerant 
socially  of  all  her  family,  had  married  a  man  whose  father 
had  been  a  merchant.  Consequently,  at  an  early  age  I  was 
taught  that  I  must  combat  the  plebeian  blood  which  came  to 
me  from  my  father's  side  of  the  family.  No  Duval  ever  had 
it,  and  no  Duval  had  ever  brought  it  into  the  family  before 
— and  whenever  I  did  anything  my  mother  particularly  dis- 
liked she  remarked  to  my  very  intolerantly  aristocratic 
great-aunt,  Miss  Polly  Hynes,  who  from  time  to  time  lived 
with  us,  that  it  was  my  "  plebeian  blood."  I  used  as  a  very 
young  child  to  wonder  if  it  was  a  different  colour  from  other 
blood,  and  I  remember  once  asking  Mammy  when  I  cut  my 
finger  badly  not  to  tie  it  up,  to  let  it  bleed.  I  thought  in  this 
way  I  might  get  rid  of  the  awful  blood  that  was  ever  pursuing 
me,  and  getting  me  into  bad  favour  and  mischief.  Even 


A  FIRST  FAMILY  OF  VIRGINIA  7 

my  physical  defects  came  from  my  plebeian  blood.  No  Duval 
had  ever  had  freckles — but  I  had  freckles,  Paschal  freckles — 
and,  what  is  worse,  I've  got  them  yet.  Oh,  that  persistent 
plebeian  blood  !  All  the  Duvals  had  small,  aristocratic 
ears  ;  mine  were  large,  plebeian  ears.  And  every  self- 
respecting  Duval  woman  wore  a  No.  i  shoe,  and  was 
the  possessor  of  an  Andalusian  instep  ;  I  had  the  Paschal 
foot.  If  I  had  not  passionately  loved  my  father  I  might 
have  wished  that  my  mother  had  married  some  one  else. 
And  it  was  not,  alas  !  only  in  my  ears  and  my  feet  that  my 
plebeian  blood  asserted  itself ;  at  an  early  age  I  evinced 
certain  decidedly  democratic  tendencies  that  had  to  be  com- 
bated with  might  and  main,  as  no  Duval  ever  had  them 
(the  truth  being  that  I  was  a  friendly,  lonely,  affectionate 
child,  longing  for  companionship). 

A  family  of  delightful  children  lived  near  us,  but  their 
father  was  a  tinsmith,  and  I  was  strictly  forbidden  to  play 
with  them,  for  they  too  were  plebeians.  Mary  and  Billy, 
the  eldest  boy  and  girl,  were  my  own  age,  and  Billy,  in  spite 
of  my  freckles  (he  had  a  goodly  number  of  his  own)  and  my 
ears,  adored  me.  He  used  to  give  me  strings  of  the  most 
wonderful  birds'  eggs,  for  Texas  is  the  land  of  birds,  and 
once  he  brought  me  a  live  humming  bird,  but  it  died  in  an 
hour — and  then  he  gave  me  a  white  rabbit  with  pink  eyes. 
My  mother  was  for  sending  it  back  at  once,  but  it  had 
already  been  concealed  for  a  week,  and  become  attached  to 
me,  and  I  cried  piteously,  and  Mammy,  and  Aunt  Polly 
Hynes,  and  my  father,  all  interceded,  and  my  father  re- 
marked that  Bates  was  a  very  decent  man,  with  decent 
children,  and  why  couldn't  I  be  allowed  to  be  friends  and 
play  with  them  now  and  again  ?  And  my  mother  answered 
if  she  listened  to  him  I  would  know  every  plebeian  child  in 
town,  that  Mammy  was  to  take  Billy  a  prize  chicken  the 
next  day,  and  a  riding  whip,  which  would  relieve  us  from  the 
obligation  of  the  white  rabbit,  and  my  acquaintance  with  the 
Bateses  was  at  an  end.  Years  afterward,  when  I  came  back 
home  from  boarding  school,  a  motherless  girl  with  the 
longest  trains  and  the  most  elaborately  dressed  hair  that 


8  I  MYSELF 

was  ever  seen,  Billy,  now  rich  and  in  the  best  society,  was 
my  very  first  visitor.  Good,  broad-faced,  broad-shouldered, 
broad-souled,  freckled-faced,  Billy — not  a  bit  put  off  by  my 
plebeian  defects — was  still  adoring.  But  Austin  was  a 
military  post,  there  were  numbers  of  young  officers  in 
gorgeous  uniforms,  with  dash  and  mystery  about  them. 
Billy  was  just  Billy  of  the  birds'  eggs  and  the  white  rabbit, 
whom  I  had  known  all  my  life.  There  was  no  mystery 
about  him.  His  nature  was  as  clear  and  pellucid  as  a  crystal 
spring.  He  was  unpretentious,  simple,  honest,  truthful, 
straightforward,  honourable,  high-minded,  and  as  hard 
wearing  and  honest  as  his  good  father's  good  tin — a  true 
gentleman.  But  I  infinitely  preferred  a  long  blue  cloak  lined 
with  red,  a  close-fitting  uniform  with  brass  buttons,  and  a 
red  sash,  a  military  cap  set  jauntily  on  the  head,  a  splendid 
dancer  (Billy  got  on  my  toes)  and  Swinburne  read  aloud. 
Only  eyes  that  have  wept  much  can  see  clearly — mine  had 
not  been  cleared  by  tears  of  sorrow.  I  was  still  blind  with 
youth's  unreal  visions. 

Few  women  have  the  good  fortune  to  love  Billys  at  six- 
teen. The  spurious  glitter  of  life  fills  and  dazzles  the  eyes 
at  that  tender  age. 

Although  my  mother  had  been  the  most  exclusive  person 
in  our  little  town,  and  an  aristocrat  to  her  very  small  finger- 
tips, she  was  really  not  so  hidebound  in  her  views  as  Mammy, 
who  preached  eternally  on  the  necessity  of  keeping  to  your 
own  class. 

"  But,  Mammy,"  as  a  child  I  used  to  say,  "  the  Bateses 
are  very  nice,  and  Mary  has  beautiful  clothes  for  Sunday 
school." 

Mammy  looked  imperious  and  disapproving.  "  Dem 
Bates  chillun  ain't  bad  chillun — I  ain't  sayin'  dey  is — but 
who  dey  gran 'pa  ?  Dey  ain't  nobody  in  de  roun'  worl'  dat 
knows,  or  dat  wants  to  know.  Now  you's  got  a  gran'pa, 
an'  what  yo'  gran'pa  wuz,  you  is.  An'  yo'  gran'pa  is  a  gentle- 
man, an'  you  ought  to  be  a  lady.  But  you  ain't  gwine  to 
be  if  you  goes  an'  plays  wid  de  Toms,  Dicks  an'  Harrys  in 
dis  here  town." 


A  FIRST  FAMILY  OF  VIRGINIA 

But,  dear  Mammy " 


"  Now,  don't  you  '  dear  Mammy '  me.  I  seen  you  fishin' 
wid  William  Bates  yesterday"  (no  familiarity  of  nick- 
names for  Mammy),  "  an'  I  ain't  tell  yo'  momma  yit,  but 
jes'  let  me  ketch  you  at  it  agin,  dat's  all." 

The  words  of  Mammy  have  come  painfully  and  acutely 
true  the  last  few  years.  My  "  gran'pa  "  died  with  gout,  and 
several  severe  attacks  have  lately  laid  me  low — and  at  last, 
after  many  years,  "  what  my  gran'pa  wuz,  I  is." 

The  Civil  War  opened  my  mother's  really  noble  nature, 
and  the  last  years  of  her  life  she  was  too  much  of  a  humani- 
tarian to  be  exclusive.  But  Mammy,  who  lived  to  be  an 
old  woman,  never  relaxed,  and  remained  a  true  aristocrat 
to  the  end  of  her  days.  She  had  a  thorough  contempt  for 
people  whom  she  called  "  half -strainers,"  and  Yankees  she 
could  not  abide.  She  used  to  say  :  "  Dese  here  Yankees 
don't  understand  niggers — dey  too  polite,  an'  dey  too 
promisin',  an'  dey  too  stingy.  A  Southern  man  sing  out  in 
de  mornin'  :  '  Here,  Dick,  you  old  villain,  take  my  breeches 
and  brush  'em,  an'  clean  my  shoes,'  den  he  up  an'  cusses 
'cause  de  shoes  don't  shine,  but  he  gives  Dick  two  dollars. 
A  Yankee  says :  '  Please  brush  my  clothes,  valet.'  Den 
he  takes  'em  an'  say  :  '  Thank  you,  I'm  gwine  to  give  you 
five  dollars  on  Saturday,'  an'  dat's  de  last  you  hear  of  him. 
De  magnolia  an'  pomegranate  an'  jessamine  won't  grow  in 
no  Yankee  land.  The  South  is  de  place  for  de  magnolia 
blooms,  an'  for  de  ole  families  an'  fur  niggers." 

I  shall  never  forget  Mammy's  scorn  of  me  upon  one 
occasion,  when  she  asked  me  who  a  young  cavalry  officer 
who  was  visiting  the  house  was. 

I  said,  "  He's  Captain  Maynard." 

Mammy  said  :  "I  know  he  name — I  tuk  it  often  enough 
at  de  door — but  who  is  he  ?  Who  is  his  pa  an'  his  gran'pa  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mammy  " — I  spoke  with  impatience — "  I  don't 
know,  only  I've  heard  that  he  belongs  to  one  of  the  old 
families  in  Ohio." 

Mammy  gave  a  great  burst  of  sardonic  laughter,  and 
said  :  "  Honey,  dis  is  something  new.  I  know  de  Pages, 


io  I  MYSELF 

an'  de  Nelsons,  an'  de  Dinwiddies,  an'  de  Berkeleys,  an'  de 
Duvals,  in  Virginia — dey's  de  ole  families.  I  knows  de 
AUstons  an'  de  Pegrams,  de  Pinkneys  an'  de  Gordons,  an' 
other  ole  families  in  South  Carolina,  an'  in  Florida  an' 
Louisiana,  an'  in  de  South,  but  dese  here  ole  families  in 
Ohio  is  bran'  new  to  me.  I  don't  know  why  you  can't  keep 
to  yo'  kind.  Miss  Marcia  "  (my  mother)  "  never  knew  any- 
body from  Ohio,  ole  or  new.  An'  all  I  know  'bout  Ohio 
wuz  dat  before  de  war  de  runaway  niggers  went  dar." 

I  did  not  argue — Mammy  was  too  subtle  and  too  per- 
sistent for  argument — and  about  people  her  instinct  was 
almost  unerring.  She  scented  the  false,  the  mean,  and  the 
meretricious  from  afar,  and  her  opinions  were  often  veritable 
prophecies.  She  was  black,  and  she  could  read  no  books. 
Her  horizon  was  bounded  by  our  very  small  world.  But 
no  statesman  could  give  better,  wiser  or  more  far-seeing 
advice.  And  in  time  of  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  trouble, 
there  was  no  heart  so  tender,  so  loyal,  understanding  and 
true.  How  often,  after  the  responsibilities  and  disillusions 
of  life  came  to  me,  I  would  go  to  Mammy  about  twilight 
and  say,  "  Mammy,  I'm  tired."  She  understood  all  there 
was  behind  that.  "  Is  you,  honey  ?  " — and  I  was  gathered 
to  her  broad  breast,  and  there  was  just  silence  and  comfort 
— no  questions  asked,  no  comments,  no  advice,  no  criticisms 
— just  pure  and  faithful,  unquestioning,  understanding  love. 
Oh,  the  infinite  rest  of  it !  The  peace  of  it  !  There  is 
nothing  like  it  in  all  this  weary  world  now.  I  am  mortally 
tired.  My  body  is  tired — my  heart  is  tired — my  very  soul 
is  tired.  And  in  some  other  and  better  world  Mammy  knows 
it,  for  she  sends  me  oftener  and  oftener  sweet  dreams  of  my 
childhood,  of  the  far-away  South  and  of  her. 


CHAPTER   III 

MY    FATHER 

"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God." 

I  THINK  the  person  of  all  others  whom  I  have  loved 
most  in  my  life  was  my  father.  I  know  I  stood 
spiritually  closer  to  him  than  I  have  ever  done  to 
any  human  being.  I  had  a  sort  of  understanding  with  him 
as  if  I  were  a  little  corner  of  his  soul.  If  he  came  into  the 
house  apparently  quite  collected  and  cheerful,  to  all  the 
other  members  of  the  family,  I  recognized  instantly  a  sort 
of  worried  undertone  in  his  voice,  and  I  involuntarily 
slipped  my  hand  in  his  and  gave  it  a  little  squeeze  of  sym- 
pathy. Of  all  the  men  I  have  ever  seen,  he  was  the  most 
touchingly  unselfish.  Man  is  in  the  main  so  unconsciously 
selfish,  that  there  is  something  deeply  pathetic  in  a  manly 
man  with  the  tenderness,  and  self-sacrifice,  of  a  woman. 
Even  in  quite  little  things  my  father  always  thought  first 
of  others.  He  was  extremely  fond  of  vegetables  and  fruit, 
but  in  the  early  spring,  when  green  peas  first  appeared  on 
the  dinner-table,  he  always  said  he  preferred  peas  a  little 
older,  so  that  some  one  else  might  have  his  portion  ;  or  if 
a  great  bowl  of  new  figs  was  brought  in,  and  every  one  began 
to  eat  greedily,  he  said  he  preferred  figs  a  little  more  ripe, 
and  had  none  at  all  himself.  He  could  more  readily  put 
himself  in  the  place  of  other  people  than  any  man  I  have  ever 
seen — as  the  French  say,  he  could  "  get  into  the  skin  "  of 
others.  He  was  a  famous  divorce  lawyer,  and  as  far  as  I 
can  recollect  he  never  lost  a  divorce  case ;  but  when  people 
came  to  him,  particularly  women,  with  a  long  story  of 


12  I  MYSELF 

wrongs,  and  their  feelings  at  the  highest  tension,  he  listened 
sympathetically,  and  with  the  greatest  patience,  and  at  the 
end  he  said  :  "  Yes,  this  is  very  melancholy,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  you  have  had  a  good  deal  to  bear,  and  very  likely 
you  will  be  able  to  divorce  your  husband  ;  but  divorce  is  not 
to  be  entered  into  any  more  lightly  than  matrimony  ;  and 
as  you  have  talked  a  good  deal  to  your  friends  and  your 
relations,  and  been  advised  by  various  people  (I  daresay 
much  ofjt  is  very  good  advice),  I  want  you  and  your  husband 
now  to  go  away  into  the  country,  or  by  the  seashore,  quite 
alone  and  talk  over  your  affairs  together  without  any  inter- 
ference or  advice  from  anybody  else  for  a  month.  At  the 
end  of  that  time,  if  you  really  want  a  divorce,  come  back 
and  talk  to  me  about  it ;  but  if  there  is  to  be  a  reconciliation, 
then,  I  will  help  you  to  set  yourself  right  with  your  family 
and  friends." 

I  remember  a  case  of  the  wife  of  a  colonel  in  the  army. 
She  roused  us  up  at  two  o'clock  one  morning  in  the  dripping 
rain,  with  a  delicate  baby  in  her  arms,  to  say  that  her  husband 
had  beaten  her  and  turned  her  out  of  his  quarters.  At 
fifteen  I  was  the  most  chivalrous,  sympathetic  child  possible. 
Her  description  of  the  colonel  and  his  cruel  and  inhuman 
conduct,  made  me  blaze  with  rage.  I  could  not  understand 
my  father's  coolness  and,  as  I  thought,  phlegmatic  indiffer- 
ence over  her  outrages,  and  when  she  told  me  that  my 
father  had  made  the  proposition  of  a  trip  to  the  country 
with  her  husband,  I  really  lost  patience  with  him,  and  he 
had  not  only  to  listen  to  the  wrongs  of  the  wife  from  her, 
but  from  me  ;  and  to  all  the  innocence,  enthusiasm  and 
ignorance  of  a  child,  the  wrongs  were  truly  heartrending. 
When  she  finally  retired  into  the  country  with  this  awful 
blackguard,  this  monstrous  ruffian,  I  simply  wept.  How- 
ever, she  did  retire.  At  the  end  of  the  month  they  returned. 
The  young  lieutenant  (I  was  too  young  in  those  days  to  know 
anything  about  the  lieutenant,  but  there  was  a  lieutenant) 
had  been  ordered  off  to  another  regiment  stationed  in 
California.  The  colonel  and  his  wife  were  entirely  recon- 
ciled, and  many  years  afterwards,  when  he  died,  I  never  saw 


MY  FATHER  13 

so  much  cr£pe  or  such  heavy  mourning.  By  that  time  I 
had  seen  a  good  many  colonels'  wives,  and  a  good  many 
lieutenants,  and  I  was  much  less  impressed  with  the  mourn- 
ing than  I  was  with  the  projected  divorce.  According  to 
the  convenient  memory  of  her  sex,  and  enveloped  in  velvet 
blackness  from  top  to  toe,  she  subsequently  told  me,  that 
no  woman  in  the  world  had  ever  had  such  a  devoted 
husband,  and  there  had  never  been  a  difference  (I  don't 
suppose  she  considered  a  lieutenant  a  difference)  between 
them.  I  did  not  remind  her  of  her  flight  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  from  this  monster  who  had  become  such  a 
saint. 

Of  all  the  peacemakers  I  have  ever  seen  I  think  my  father 
was  the  best  and  greatest.  "  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers, 
for  they  shall  be  called  the  children  of  God."  Not  only  were 
many  divorces  avoided  by  my  father,  but  family  quarrels 
patched  up  again  and  again,  friends  reconciled,  and  quarrels 
mended,  by  his  just  and  wise  advice.  In  the  first  place,  no 
one  ever  talked  to  him  without  feeling  rested  and  refreshed. 
His  spirit  was  so  broad  and  so  great  that  you  felt  your 
mental  littleness  and  pettiness  drop  from  you  like  a  mantle, 
as  you  sat  down  in  his  beautiful,  uplifting  presence.  An  old 
friend  of  his  died,  leaving  rather  a  complicated  will.  He 
was  a  very  rich  man,  and  had  ten  children  :  this  led  to  fre- 
quent quarrels  in  the  family,  but  they  all  lived  together 
fairly  harmoniously  until  my  father  was  taken  very  ill. 
One  morning  seven  of  the  children  and  the  mother  arrived, 
all  of  them  in  a  state  of  mind  bordering  on  insanity.  My 
father  was  at  this  time  very  ill,  but  he  insisted  upon  being 
propped  up  in  bed  with  pillows  behind  his  back,  and 
the  eight  raging  human  beings  entered  this  exalted  death- 
chamber.  The  first  words  were  loud  and  angry,  and  I 
listened  with  the  greatest  anxiety  outside  the  door.  In 
half-an-hour  one  could  hear  the  tones  getting  lower  and 
more  gentle,  and  the  end  of  it  was,  they  all  left  the  house  in 
tears,  quite  subdued,  and  with  promises  of  a  better  under- 
standing in  the  future. 

My  father  never  had  an  interested  thought  for  himself, 


i4  I  MYSELF 

and  his  pitiful  tenderness  for  humanity  was  inexhaustible. 
He  loved  his  kind  with  an  instinctive  sympathy  derived 
from  a  continual  study  of  that  source  of  all  the  humanities, 
Christ's  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  He  was  not  a  very  good 
business  man,  but  his  beautiful,  brave  face  at  once  inspired 
trust  and  faith. 

After  the  Civil  War,  when  America  was  in  a  perfectly 
chaotic  state,  he  was  in  New  York,  and  walking  down 
Broadway  he  passed  once  or  twice  a  tall  countryman. 
Finally  this  man  came  up  and  spoke  to  him,  saying  :  "  Ex- 
cuse me,  sir,  but  I  have  left  the  South  and  have  come  to 
New  York  to  make  my  fortune.  I  have  got  the  whole  of 
my  capital  with  me — three  thousand  dollars.  Can  you  tell 
me  how  to  invest  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir,"  my  father  said  to  him,  "  how  is  it 
that  you  address  a  total  stranger  like  myself  and  ask  for  such 
an  important  piece  of  advice  ?  " 

The  man  answered  :  "I  have  been  walking  up  and  down 
Broadway  the  whole  day  looking  for  an  honest  man,  as 
soon  as  I  saw  you,  I  knew  I  had  found  one." 

My  father  did  not  tell  him  how  to  invest  the  money,  but 
introduced  him  to  a  responsible  banker,  and  the  man  after- 
wards established  a  good  business  by  buying  and  selling 
cotton. 

There  was  a  very  celebrated  woman  in  America,  a  Mrs 
Gaines.  My  father  was  her  lawyer  for  thirty  years.  She 
had  a  most  romantic  history.  When  a  young,  brilliant,  and 
beautiful  girl,  she  fell  in  love  with  a  young  man  who  was 
poor  and  not  desirable :  so  her  father  thought,  but  she 
insisted  upon  marrying  him,  and  at  last  her  father  flew  into  a 
terrible  rage  and  said  :  "  I  don't  care  who  you  marry,  as  you 
are  not  my  daughter." 

She  asked  whose  daughter  she  was,  and  he  said  :  "  The 
illegitimate  daughter  of  Daniel  Clark  of  Louisiana." 

She  answered  :  "  I  am  too  honest  a  woman  to  be  anybody's 
illegitimate  daughter  ;  from  this  moment  I  devote  my  life 
to  proving  my  legitimacy.  I  don't  know  who  Daniel  Clark 
was,  but  if  he  was  my  father,  he  married  my  mother ;  and 


MY  FATHER  15 

though  you  have  been  my  father  for  nineteen  years  you  shall 
not  reproach  me  with  what  is  not  true." 

She  did  establish  her  legitimacy,  and  she  was  heir  to  per- 
haps the  greatest  fortune  in  America,  but,  according  to  our 
national  law,  her  property,  having  been  "  squatted  upon," 
had  really  passed  into  other  hands,  consequently  innumer- 
able and  incessant  law-suits  were  necessary  in  order  to  get 
hold  of  the  many  millions.  En  secondes  noces  she  married 
General  Gaines,  and  the  fortunes  of  the  first  and  second 
husband  were  both  swallowed  up  in  enormous  law-suits. 
She  read  law  herself,  and  was  a  very  intelligent  woman,  a 
brilliant  conversationalist,  but  absolutely  with  one  idea, 
as  she  never  thought  or  spoke  of  anything  else  than  her  one 
great  interest.  When  my  father  died  she  paid  him  a  magni- 
ficent tribute,  after  thirty  years  of  the  closest  association 
with  him,  and  having  become  suspicious  of  human  nature 
through  very  many  experiences.  She  said  to  me  :  "  Your 
father  Judge  Paschal  never  thought,  or  said,  or  did  a  mean 
thing  in  the  whole  of  his  life." 


CHAPTER  IV 

MY    TERRIBLE    SECRET 

I  REMEMBER  the  first  secret  that  I  ever  had  from 
my  father.  Oh,  how  hideously,  how  terribly  it 
weighed  upon  my  conscience — the  tender  conscience 
of  five  !  Mammy  used  to  tell  me  a  great  deal  about  the 
wrongs  of  the  negroes  and  about  the  Abolitionists,  who  were 
looked  upon  as  the  very  scum  of  the  earth  in  the  South,  and 
were  often  lynched.  I  had  great  sympathy  with  the  slaves  ; 
I  seemed  to  have  been  born  to  think  slavery  an  abomina- 
tion, and  gradually  I  became  an  Abolitionist.  It  was  such 
an  awful  thing  that  I  could  take  only  Mammy  into  my  con- 
fidence. 

I  recollect  when  I  was  six  years  old  going  into  the  kitchen 
early  one  morning  and  saying  to  her  :  "  Mammy,  I  have  got 
something  to  tell  you.  It  will  be  an  awful  thing  for  the 
family  when  it  is  known — perhaps  I  shall  have  to  go  away 
for  always.  I  am  an  Abolitionist !  " 

Mammy  said  :  "  Oh,  lots  of  niggers  are  mighty  well  off, 
I  can  tell  you — all  Miss  Marcia's  niggers  are  anyhow. 
I  don't  think,  if  I  wuz  in  your  place,  I  would  be  an 
Abolitionist." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  Mammy,  I  am — I  am  an  Abolitionist." 

Then  slowly  I  began  to  prepare  my  father  for  this  horrible 
revelation.  I  said  to  him  :  "  Pappy,  I  have  got  something 
to  tell  you  about  myself,  so  awful  that  I  can't  be  your  little 
girl." 

He  looked  rather  amused  :  "  Oh,  I  don't  think  that  is 
possible." 

"  But,"  I  insisted,  "  it  is.    You  don't  know  what  it  is — 

16 


MY  TERRIBLE  SECRET  17 

it  is  something  so  terrible  that  I  can't  tell  you  to-day — I 
must  have  a  few  days  more." 

He  did  not  press  me.  I  was  rather  sorry  for  that,  so  again 
I  asked  him  :  "  If  I  had  to  go  away  from  home  for  ever 
could  I  take  Mammy  with  me  ?  " 

He  said  :  "  Well,  it  depends  upon  where  you  are  going." 

I  replied  :  "  Fm  afraid  I  will  have  to  go.  You  say  I 
should  never  have  a  secret  from  you,  but  I  have  got  a  most 
awful,  awful  secret — I  don't  suppose  any  child  ever  had  such 
a  secret  before." 

Again  he  repressed  his  curiosity  and  I  deferred  my  revela- 
tion. Finally  one  day  I  climbed  upon  his  knee,  put  my 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  said  :  "  Now,  I  am  going  to  hold 
you  tight  while  I  tell  you  something,  because  it  may  be  the 
last  time  that  you  will  ever  want  me  on  your  lap.  I  am 
something  that  you  think  is  awful,  but  I  know  it  is  right, 
and  you  have  always  told  me  that  I  was  to  be  brave  and 
have  courage,  and  if  I  thought  a  thing  was  right  I  was  to 
stand  by  it." 

He  tenderly  stroked  my  hair,  saying,  "  Well,  now  I  am 
thoroughly  prepared  ;  you  have  been  talking  to  me  for 
some  time,  and  I  shall  have  courage  for  whatever  revelation 
you  make  to  me." 

I  slipped  from  my  knee,  and  stood  up,  held  my  breath  for 
a  moment,  and  then  gasped  out  :  "I  am  an  Abolitionist !  " 

I  shall  never  forget  the  shame  and  anguish  that  I  suffered 
when  he  laughed  more  heartily  than  I  had  ever  heard  him 
laugh  before.  To  think  that  I  had  gone  through  weeks  of 
agony  and  genuine  mental  suffering,  and  my  well-thought- 
out,  martyr-like  principle  was  to  be  treated  with  levity  !  I 
was  thoroughly  angry  and  disgusted,  but  somewhat  re- 
lieved at  the  same  time,  as  it  seemed  to  make  no  difference 
whatever  in  my  father's  affection  for  me. 

Just  after  this  I  had  an  opportunity  of  putting  my  prin- 
ciple into  practice.  My  father  had  bought  a  negro  from  the 
rice  plantation  who  was  more  like  an  animal  than  anything 
I  have  ever  seen.  He  had  been  brought  up  in  a  little  cabin  ; 
he  had  never  seen  a  carpet,  or  a  pair  of  andirons,  or  a  table, 


i8  I  MYSELF 

or  in  fact  anything  that  belongs  to  civilization.  He  had 
simply  worked  on  a  river  plantation,  had  corn-bread  and 
bacon  for  food,  and  slept  on  a  blanket  in  a  little  cabin  at 
night.  The  miasma  of  the  low-lying  river  bed  would  have 
killed  a  white  man,  but  he  was  an  enormous  fellow — about 
six  feet  high,  and  as  black  as  coal,  gay  and  always  laughing, 
his  big  mouth  was  filled  with  splendid  rows  of  white  teeth, 
and  he  had  a  fascinating  store  of  animal  tales.  We  instantly 
became  great  friends,  and  he  could  carry  me  round  the  place 
by  the  hour  on  his  back  without  being  tired,  and  he  was 
always  ready  to  put  the  saddle  on  my  pony  or  to  mend  my 
whips  or  to  do  anything  to  please  me,  but  he  was  extremely 
idle,  and  impertinent  to  my  father.  One  day  I  was  sitting 
on  the  end  of  a  waggon,  and  he  was  standing  by,  as  usual 
laughing.  My  father  came  up  and  said  :  "  Eli,  have  you 
been  down  in  the  cornfield  to-day  ?  I  told  you  to  go  this 
morning  at  five  o'clock." 

"  No,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  didn't  go." 

"  Damn  it  all !  Do  you  dare  to  disobey  me  ?  "  said  my 
father,  raising  his  hand  to  give  him  a  blow. 

Just  then  I  leaped  off  the  end  of  the  waggon  on  to  Eli's 
neck,  and  the  blow — a  hard  one — descended  with  such  force 
on  my  head  that  I  was  rendered  quite  blind  and  dazed  for 
a  moment,  and  my  nose  began  to  bleed,  but  as  the  blow  was 
not  intended  for  me  I  uttered  no  cry.  My  father  was  in  a 
terrible  state  of  mind  ;  he  asked  my  forgiveness,  and  said  : 
"  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do  :  I  promise  you  as  long  as  I  live 
I  will  never  strike  another  negro."  And  he  never  did. 

A  man  lived  opposite  to  us  who  was  extremely  cruel  to 
his  slaves  ;  he  seemed  to  take  a  perfect  delight  in  giving  a 
negro  a  beating,  and  he  selected  the  lovely  sunny  days  to 
do  it  in,  when  the  cries  could  be  well  carried  through  the 
clear  and  ambient  air.  With  the  first  blow  and  the  first 
cry  I  began  :  "  Oh,  pappy,  please  go  and  ask  Mr  Young  not 
to  go  on  beating  that  negro.  Oh,  please  !  Oh,  please  !  " 
The  louder  her  cries,  the  louder  became  mine,  and  the  tears 
rolled  down  my  cheeks  as  I  begged  :  "  Oh,  I  can't  bear  it — 
I  can't  bear  it !  "  It  was  just  as  if  we  were  trying  who 


MY  TERRIBLE  SECRET  19 

could  cry  the  loudest,  the  woman  who  was  being  whipped 
or  myself.  It  was  inadmissible  in  the  South  for  one  man  to 
interfere  with  another  man's  slaves  ;  but  finally  in  despera- 
tion my  father  would  rush  over  to  Mr  Young,  and  I  can  hear 
him  still  with  his  angry  voice  :  "  Good  God,  Young,  for 
heaven's  sake  drop  that  whip  !  You  are  not  only  killing 
your  darkie,  but  you  are  killing  my  child — she  is  now  in  a 
nervous  spasm.  Why  the  devil  can't  you  manage  your 
servants  without  continually  thrashing  them  ?  " 

Mr  Young  finally  became  so  angry  that  he  sent  my  father 
a  challenge  to  a  duel,  which  was  instantly  accepted,  as  my 
father  had  been  brought  up  to  the  duelling  system.  He  was 
a  splendid  pistol  shot  :  it  was  said  that  once  he  shot  a  wild 
beast  at  night  under  the  house  simply  by  firing  between  the 
two  brilliant  eyes.  (The  houses  in  the  South  are  raised  from 
the  ground,  for  additional  coolness  probably.)  As  Mr  Young 
was  a  very  bad  shot,  his  second  came  to  my  father  and  the 
matter  was  arranged  without  blood  being  spilled,  and  after 
that  he  was  more  considerate  to  his  negroes. 

I  thought  then,  and  I  think  now,  that  unlimited  power  is 
one  of  the  most  terrible  things  in  the  world.  The  power  of 
one  man  to  strike  another  man  without  his  being  able  to 
strike  back,  but  simply  to  stand  like  a  dumb  animal  and 
take  the  blow,  is  an  abomination  in  the  sight  of  the  just. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN   TRUTH   LIES   FREEDOM 

"  No  man  is  free  until  he  has  been  divorced  from  public 
favour." — ELBERT  HUBBARD 

ABOUT  this  time  an  uncle  of  mine  wanted  to  go 
abroad.  He  wrote  to  my  father  and  asked  if  he 
would  take  charge  of  his  negroes — he  had  a  planta- 
tion of  about  five  hundred  slaves.  My  father  answered  No, 
it  was  impossible  ;  he  was  too  much  occupied  with  his  law 
cases.  However,  Uncle  Marcellus  was  a  man  who  did 
whatever  he  wanted  to  do.  and  one  morning  we  awoke  to 
find  the  place  literally  swarming  with  negroes  ;  nearly  the 
whole  number  had  been  sent  down  for  my  father  to  take 
charge  of,  while  Uncle  Marcellus  made  a  two  years'  tour  in 
Europe. 

In  a  very  short  time  they  were  all  hired  out,  and  one  of 
them,  Sally — a  fat,  black,  lazy,  sweet-tempered  creature — 
was  taken  as  a  useful  maid  to  some  young  Duval  cousins  of 
mine.  Sally  had  quite  as  good  a  collection  of  negro  stories 
as  Uncle  Remus— of  which  "  Brer  Rabbit  "  and  the  "  Tar 
Baby  "  were  the  first  favourites — and  night  after  night  we 
listened  to  her  tales  and  her  songs.  I  can  hear  her  chanting 
"  De  Jay  Bird  "  yet : 

"  De  jay  bird  he  lived  on  de  fork  eyed  dear — 

Jang — my  long  go  hay — 
An'  de  blue  bird  lived  a  neighbour  near 
An'  he  sot  one  day  on  de  top  of  de  sawpit, 
An'  he  saw  de  jay  bird  co'tin'  de  tomtit — 

Jang — my  long  go  hay. 


1AM  AN  ABOLITIONIST! 


IN  TRUTH  LIES  FREEDOM  21 

An'  de  blue  bird  he  ripped,  an'  de  blue  bird  swore 

Dat  he  nebber  had  saw  sich  fun  before. 

Said  de  jay  bird — "  Blue  coat,  you  be  done 

An'  stop  dat  way  of  pokin'  fun." 

But  de  blue  bird  he  kep'  on  a-lafin'  still, 

Said  de  jay  bird  :  "  Go  it — have  your  fill." 

Den  de  jay  bird  he  co'ted  de  blue  bird's  sister, 

An'  he  flew  to  de  paw-paw  bush  an'  he  kissed  her. 

Den  de  blue  bird  he  ripped  an'  de  blue  bird  tore 

An'  said  he  nebber  was  so  mad  before. 

Den  de  jay  bird  he  'loped  wid  de  blue  bird's  wife, 

An'  it  almos'  took  dat  bluebird's  life, 

An'  he  fluttered  about  an'  he  could  not  res' 

Till  he  took  an'  destroyed  dat  jay  bird's  nes'. 

Den  all  de  birds  from  de  crow  to  de  wren 

Poked  dey  fun  at  de  blue  bird  den, 

An'  he  moved  away  to  de  Arkansaw, 

But  de  jay  bird  still  stuck  in  he  crow 

An'  he  died  one  day  of  de  melancholy 

Because  he  had  committed  de  folly 

Of  laughing  at  de  jay  bird  an'  de  tomtit 

As  dey  sat  one  day  on  de  top  of  de  sawpit. 

An'  he  wiped  his  bill,  an'  he  writ  his  will, 

An'  his  will  is  in  dat  fam'ly  still. 

An'  he  lef  his  chillun  dis  beques' : 

Nebber  to  fool  wid  a  jay  .bird  nes'." 

How  we  loved  the  line  :  "He  wiped  his  bill,  an'  he  writ 
his  will  "  !  But  Sally  was  not  much  good  for  anything  but 
story  telling,  so  Uncle  Tom  bought  a  useful  maid  who  could 
sew  neatly,  and  Sally  was  hired  out  to  a  Mrs  Birrell.  Mrs 
Birrell  was  a  tall,  angular,  hard-featured  Yankee  from 
Connecticut.  Though  the  people  of  the  North  were  all 
against  slavery,  they  often  made  much  the  more  cruel  and 
tyrannical  masters  and  mistresses  of  the  negroes. 

Nothing  was  heard  of  Sally  for  some  time,  when  one  day 
about  one  o'clock  (this  was  almost  at  the  close  of  the  war)  she 
appeared,  seemingly  very  ill — I  cannot  say  pale,  as  she  was 
as  black  as  the  ace  of  spades — but  she  looked  decidedly 
ashen.  She  said  to  my  mother  :  "  Miss  Marcia,  I  have 
runned  away  from  Mrs  Birrell  because  I  can't  stand  it  any 
longer." 


22  I  MYSELF 

My  mother  answered,  "  Well,  Sally,  I'll  send  a  note  to 
the  Judge.  Take  it  to  his  office  and  see  what  he  can  do  for 
you." 

She  replied,  "  Miss  Marcia,  I  can't  walk  another  step.  I 
just  want  to  show  you  something." 

With  this  she  raised  up  her  one  garment — a  cotton  dress 
— and  showed  her  back  to  my  mother,  and  my  mother,  who 
was  a  woman  with  strong  nerves,  instantly  fainted.  From 
Sally's  shoulders  to  her  heels  she  had  literally  been  flayed 
alive.  I  was  told  afterwards  there  was  scarcely  an  inch  of 
skin  on  her  whole  body  ;  and  not  only  that  :  the  woman 
had  rubbed  salt  all  over  the  raw  flesh  ! 

We  sent  for  the  family  doctor,  and  he  thought  it  was 
impossible  for  Sally  to  live  ;  but  my  mother,  who  had  un- 
daunted courage  and  undaunted  kindness,  said  it  would  be 
too  great  a  satisfaction  to  Mrs  Birrell  to  have  her  die,  and 
that  she  herself  would  nurse  her.  The  finest  linen  sheets  in 
the  house  were  taken  out  of  a  fragrant  cupboard,  and  the 
nursing  began.  It  was  impossible  for  Sally  to  wear  a  night- 
gown ;  she  was  covered  with  salves,  ointments  and  old 
linen,  and  rolled  up  in  a  linen  sheet,  and  fanned  all  day  long. 
After  six  weeks  of  hard,  never-ending  work,  with  relays  of 
nurses — I  can  remember  my  dear  father  coming  home  tired 
from  his  office,  and  sitting  down  with  a  palm-leaf  fan,  and 
fanning  Sally  by  the  hour,  to  be  relieved  by  my  mother,  or 
one  of  my  cousins  or  the  cooks  or  housemaids — and  by  con- 
stantly being  kept  cool  and  looked  after  night  and  day,  she 
was  finally  out  of  danger.  My  father  brought  a  suit  against 
Mrs  Birrell,  for  persistent  cruelty,  but  only  got  the  price  of 
the  doctors'  bills. 

There  was  a  negro  whipper  in  town,  a  Mr  Marsh,  who  was 
thin  and  tall,  and  the  children  ran  from  him  as  if  he  were  a 
leper  ;  and  although  people  sent  him  servants  for  five,  or  ten, 
or  twenty,  or  thirty  lashes,  as  the  case  might  be,  Mr  Marsh 
was  held  in  great  contempt  by  the  whole  town,  was  absolutely 
friendless,  and  was  always  called  the  negro  whipper.  To 
me  he  seemed  a  sort  of  vampire,  and  whenever  I  saw  him  I 
turned  my  head  away  as  quickly  as  possible — and  once  I 


IN  TRUTH  LIES  FREEDOM  23 

forgot  the  ladylike  teachings  of  my  Mammy,  and  as  I  passed 
by  I  spat  upon  him. 

We  had  a  negro  man  who  belonged  to  my  brother  ;  he 
was  called  William,  and  was  a  very  clever  man  indeed ; 
after  the  war,  he  made  quite  a  fortune  by  patents.  He 
could  play  the  violin  admirably,  he  was  a  splendid  carpenter, 
could  mend  anything  that  was  broken — a  waggon,  or  a 
window,  or  a  door — but  he  was  very  insubordinate  and 
impudent,  so  I  was  told.  He  belonged  to  my  eldest  brother 
— not  to  my  father.  He  had  done  something  ,1  don't  know 
what,  and  I  heard  my  brother  say  one  day  to  the  manager 
of  the  place,  "  Take  William  up  to  Marsh  to-morrow  and  tell 
him  to  give  him  twenty  lashes." 

I  went  to  sleep  with  that  horrible  speech  echoing  in  my 
ears.  Twenty  lashes  !  Twenty  lashes  !  William,  who  was 
always  so  kind  to  me,  and  who  played  such  pretty,  gay  tunes 
on  the  violin,  and  who  was  so  tall  and  good-looking  and 
proud — William  was  to  have  his  spirit  broken,  his  shirt  taken 
off,  and  on  his  bare  back  old  Marsh  was  to  administer  twenty 
lashes  !  No  ;  I  made  up  my  mind  that  it  should  not  happen 
— if  I  had  to  die  for  it. 

Early  the  next  morning,  about  five  o'clock,  I  woke  up  and 
I  said  to  my  Mammy,  "  Mammy,  William  is  to  be  whipped 
to-day,  but  he  sha'n't  be  whipped  if  I  scream  myself  to  death 
for  it." 

As  soon  as  Mammy  dressed  me,  I  ran  to  the  garden  and 
stationed  myself  by  William's  side.  When  the  manager 
came  and  said,  "  William,  I  am  going  to  take  you  up  to 
town,"  I  gave  one  scream,  a  perfectly  ear-piercing  scream, 
followed  by  another.  My  father  ran  out  of  the  house, 
thinking  that  I  was  being  mortally  hurt,  and  my  mother 
ran  after  him,  only  to  find  that  my  brother  had  given  orders 
for  William  to  be  whipped.  I  would  not  stop  screaming 
for  a  moment  ;  then  I  began  to  tremble  and  grow  white, 
but  still  held  on  to  William,  who  was  dumb.  My  father 
turned  to  my  mother,  saying,  "  Good  God,  this  child  is  going 
to  drive  us  all  mad  about  these  negroes."  Then  he  turned 
to  the  manager  and  said,  "  Go  and  tell  your  Marse  George 


24  I  MYSELF 

that  Betty  won't  let  William  be  whipped,  and,  damn  it  all, 
I  won't  either." 

I  was  the  thinnest  wraith  who  has  ever  been  seen,  because 
my  mind  and  my  imagination  were  being  continually  drawn 
upon  ;  and  when  I  see  fat,  stolid  English  children,  who  can 
eat  and  sleep  and  live  a  simple  unimaginative  existence,  I 
do  envy  them  their  natural,  healthy  lives — no  anxieties  and 
no  responsibilities,  while  mine  began,  alas !  almost  at  my 
birth. 

My  father,  according  to  other  members  of  the  family, 
spoiled  me  terribly.  Every  night  after  I  went  to  bed  he 
always  told  me  a  story,  kissed  me  good-night,  and  held  my 
hand  until  I  went  to  sleep.  And  I  have  been  told  that  he 
gave  up  many  dinner  parties  for  this  reason,  and  would 
always  leave  his  own  for  a  short  interval,  saying,  "  Pray 
excuse  me,  but  I  always  tell  my  little  daughter  a  story 
before  she  goes  to  sleep.  I  will  return  in  a  few  moments." 

The  stories  were  of  many  and  various  sorts.  I  preferred 
"The  Arabian  Nights"  (shortened  and  simplified)  to  them  all. 
But  I  loved  above  everything  true  stories,  and  I  always 
breathed  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  if  my  father  convincingly 
said,  "  That's  a  true  story."  Even  in  my  babyhood  I  had 
a  passion  for  truth.  Can  a  woman  be  born  into  the  world 
with  a  more  tragic  desire  ?  From  men  especially  she  gets 
it  so  rarely,  and  yet  of  all  things  it  is  the  most  tonic,  and  the 
most  healthy.  In  truth  lies  freedom  of  spirit  and  freedom 
of  mind. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ELEMENTAL  ME 

"  Good  my  lord, 

You  have  begot  me,  bred  me,  loved  me  ;  I 
Return  those  duties  back  as  are  right  fit, 
Obey  you,  love  you,  and  most  honour  you." 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  REMEMBER  one  night  when  I  was  about  four  years 
old,  I  had  a  fever.  It  was  a  very  warm  night  in 
the  summer  time,  and  in  my  little  thin  nightgown 
I  turned  and  twisted  on  my  father's  serge  lap,  and  complained 
so  much,  and  insisted  so  despotically  on  my  own  way  that 
he  was  finally  induced  to  take  off  his  woollen  trousers.  His 
linen  drawers  were  cooler,  and  we  sat  quite  peacefully 
afterward,  he  attired  in  black  coat,  waistcoat  and  drawers, 
when  my  mother  and  the  old  family  doctor  made  their 
appearance.  My  mother,  who  was  very  prim,  was  horrified 
at  my  father's  attire,  but  he  explained  that  it  was  my  com- 
mand, and  my  necessity,  as  I  was  ill.  As  they  went  out  of 
the  room  I  heard  the  doctor  say  to  my  mother  :  "  The 
Judge  is  preparing  himself  for  the  fate  of  Lear,  and  Betty 
will  be  a  second  Goneril." 

I  insisted  then  and  there  on  the  story  of  Lear,  and  we  both 
scouted  the  baleful  prophecy  of  the  future.  This  was  my 
first  introduction  to  Shakespeare.  My  first  successful 
rebellion  was  shortly  after  this  episode.  Whenever  the 
doctor  was  called  in  for  any  childish  ill,  he  always  gave  one 
remedy — rhubarb  and  jalap.  Oh,  the  black,  sticky  nasti- 
ness  of  it !  To  this  day  the  odour  even  of  rhubarb  makes 
me  feel  faint. 

25 


26  I  MYSELF 

One  day  when  the  doctor  was  sent  for,  I  suddenly  made 
up  my  small,  unbendable,  martyr -like  mind  not  to  take  the 
rhubarb  and  jalap.  When  he  felt  my  pulse  and  looked  at 
my  tongue  and  ordered  the  usual  prescription  I  was  pre- 
pared, and  calmly  announced  my  unalterable  decision  never 
to  take  rhubarb  and  jalap  again.  My  father  was  grieved  ; 
my  mother  was  angry  ;  the  doctor  was  stern — so  was  I. 
The  doctor  then  advised  my  mother  and  father  to  leave 
the  room  while  he  administered  the  potion.  He  sat  down 
on  a  chair,  seized  me,  put  me  on  a  small  stool,  and  held  my 
head  between  his  knees.  I  sat  quite  still,  with  hands  and 
teeth  both  clenched  hard  together.  I  have  always  had  good 
muscular  strength,  and  my  little  jaws  never  opened,  so  the 
doctor  emptied  spoonful  after  spoonful  of  jalap  over  my 
apron  and  hair.  My  gums  bled  profusely  from  the  hard 
pressure  of  the  wandering  spoon,  but  the  jaws  and  the  spirit 
remained  strong  and  locked  like  a  vice.  Finally  my  father, 
alarmed  at  the  unexpected  silence,  rushed  in,  and,  rinding 
my  hair  clotted  with  jalap  and  my  face  as  pale  as  death  and 
stained  with  blood  and  medicine,  picked  me  up  in  his  arms, 
saying  to  the  doctor,  "  Good  heavens,  are  you  killing  the 
child,  Dr  Baker  ?  "  It  was  then,  and  only  then,  that  I 
wept  out  my  insubordinate  and  passionate  soul.  My  father 
understood.  He  always  understood.  And  jalap  was  never 
mentioned  in  the  house  again. 

Another  memory  of  my  childhood,  and  a  happier  one,  was 
of  a  wonderful  Christmas  tree  in  the  church,  for  all  the  Sunday 
school  scholars,  with  the  curate,  an  amiable  albino,  dressed 
as  Santa  Claus.  It  was  a  big  cedar -tree,  with  a  rich  spicy 
odour  from  the  cedar  brake,  full  of  purple  cedar  berries,  and 
lighted  with  myriads  of  pink  candles.  It  was  hung  with 
beautiful  toys  all  direct  from  Germany,  but  the  toy  that 
rilled  my  soul  with  delight,  joy,  envy  and  apprehension  was 
a  parrot.  What  would  I  do  if  any  other  child  got  that 
parrot  ?  I  felt  that  I  would  die.  Having  seen  the  parrot 
with  its  gorgeous  red  and  green,  colouring  its  fine  tail,  and 
fresh  kid  base  that  promised  a  sonorous  squeak,  life  with- 
out it  would,  I  knew,  be  worthless  and  unlivable.  My  long- 


ELEMENTAL  ME  27 

ings  even  now,  though  I  am  a  grandmother,  are  keen.  As 
a  child,  when  I  wanted  anything,  my  little  soul  was  a  flame 
of  desire.  Those  are  the  beings  born  into  the  world  to  suffer 
above  all  others.  Fate  loves  to  punish  them  ;  she  has 
given  them  keen  longings,  keen  joys  and  keen  agonies. 
They  are  the  people  who  never  do  anything  by  halves — the 
elemental  ones,  whose  emotions  are  stormy  and  turbulent, 
or  joyous,  but  always  deep  and  definite.  And  as  I  gazed  at 
that  parrot,  even  at  the  tender  age  of  four,  my  life  presented 
one  long  grey  blank  without  him.  Santa  Claus  began  to 
distribute  the  toys.  The  tree  was  robbed  of  dolls,  and 
Noah's  arks,  and  horses,  and  carts,  and  kites,  and  drums, 
and  flutes,  and  engines,  and  trumpets — and  then  a  hand 
took  down  the  parrot.  I  shut  my  eyes  tight,  and  held  my 
breath,  for  I  could  not  have  witnessed  another  child's 
possession  of  that  irrationally  loved  bird  without  a  cry  of 
agony.  But  Fate  on  one  of  the  few  occasions  of  my  life 
smiled  on  me  that  night.  I  felt  something  placed  in  my 
arms,  I  smelt  the  adorable  scent  of  toy  paint,  more  agree- 
able to  the  nostrils  of  a  child  than  all  the  mingled  perfumes 
of  Araby.  I  opened  my  eyes.  I  breathed  again,  the  blood 
flowed  back  to  my  little  heart.  The  parrot,  the  beautiful, 
the  many-coloured,  the  longed-for,  the  well-desired  parrot, 
was  mine.  That  was  an  hour  of  perfect  bliss. 

Not  so  many  years  ago  something  of  the  same  sort  happened 
to  me  in  London.  Buffalo  Bill  had  his  big  show  here,  and 
undertook  to  teach  my  son  riding.  Toodie  (my  boy)  was 
only  fifteen  then,  and  provided  with  the  longest  gloves  and 
the  biggest  sombrero,  and  the  most  brilliant  shirt  of  all  the 
cowboys,  he  was  given  a  kicking  broncho,  and  told  to  ride. 
Being  an  anxious  mother,  I  was  frequently  at  the  show  and 
often  in  Colonel  Cody's  quarters.  Hanging  on  the  wall  of 
his  sitting-room  was  a  charming  water-colour  that  I  wanted 
almost  as  badly  as  the  parrot.  It  represented  a  brilliant 
summer  day,  a  stretch  of  wild  prairie  (probably  Texas), 
and  sitting  immovable,  on  an  immovable  mustang  pony, 
an  Indian  chief  in  all  the  bravery  of  his  war  paint,  his  proud 
head  prouder  with  feathers,  and  his  hand  held  lightly  over 


28  I  MYSELF 

his  eyes  to  shade  them  from  the  blinding  sun.  Evidently 
he  was  looking  for  and  scenting  some  distant,  unseen,  but 
instinctively  felt  enemy.  The  subject  appealed  to  me,  and 
I  loved  the  picture  and  wanted  it  badly.  But  Buffalo  Bill 
did  not  know  this,  and  one  day  the  show  was  over,  and 
packed,  and  gone  away. 

Two  days  after  its  departure  a  coloured  servant  appeared 
and  brought  me  the  envied  water-colour  with  Colonel  Cody's 
compliments.  He  had  left  it  for  me.  And  if  ever  I  have  a 
home  again  (oh,  the  dear  heart-breaking  word  !)  I  will  hang 
that  Indian  brave  the  first  of  all  my  pictures. 

Heredity  is  much  stronger  than  we  realize,  and  its  identical 
forces  march  along  the  same  lines,  in  spite  of  the  leavening 
of  many  generations.  Zelie  de  Lussan,  that  gifted  singer 
and  actress,  says  she  has  never  known  a  more  decided 
Frenchwoman  in  thought,  in  feeling,  in  sentiment,  and  in 
taste,  than  myself.  And  yet  for  generations  I  am  an  Ameri- 
can. But  my  French  blood  reasserts  itself,  and  I  easily 
comprehend  the  exalted  desperation  which  sent  the  men 
and  women  of  France  quite  gaily  to  the  guillotine.  I  have 
experienced  this  feeling  more  than  once  in  my  life.  There 
is  no  other  emotion  akin  to  it.  The  soul  seems  quite  detached 
from  the  body  ;  it  leaps  forth  like  a  sword  from  the  scabbard. 
It  is  a  monstrous  flame  blazing  to  the  sky.  It  is  the  pure 
spirit  freed  by  an  overmastering  emotion  from  the  dragging 
flesh.  And  this  feeling  came  to  me  first  as  a  child  through 
my  father.  He  was  a  Union  man,  a  convinced  constitutional 
lawyer.  He  believed  in  the  United  States  of  America  as  a 
great,  magnificent  and  undivided  whole.  And  though  he 
had  the  greatest  love  of  his  people,  and  was  a  Southern  man 
by  ancestry  and  sentiment,  he  always  remained  true  to  the 
constitution  and  to  the  Union,  although  he  lived  in  Texas, 
a  state  unanimous  in  its  adherence  to  the  Confederacy. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  war,  when  the  Confederacy  was 
nearing  its  end,  a  small  party  of  fanatics  decided,  as  an 
example  to  others,  to  hang  my  father,  who  was  the  leader  of 
the  Union  men  of  the  state.  One  day  my  mother  was  on 
the  balcony  attending  to  her  flowers.  I  was  in  the  garden 


ELEMENTAL  ME  29 

playing.  An  uncle  of  mine  suddenly  appeared  unannounced 
and  spoke  to  her  hurriedly.  My  mother  turned  deadly 
pale,  put  her  hand  to  her  side,  and  my  uncle  supported  her 
to  a  chair  and  called  to  a  maid  for  a  glass  of  water.  I  ran 
to  her,  calling  out,  "  Oh,  mamma,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 
She  exclaimed,  "  Your  father  has  been  arrested  and  put  in 
gaol  for  his  opinions,  as  a  Union  man  and  an  honourable 
gentleman.  But  he  will  soon  be  out.  Be  a  good  little  girl 
and  don't  cry." 

Uncle  Matthew,  who  was  clerk  of  the  court,  then  said, 
"  Marcia,  I've  arranged  for  the  Judge's  dinner  to  be  sent  to 
him.  Will  you  order  the  carriage  and  one  of  the  servants 
to  take  it  ?  " 

And  "  Oh,  mamma,"  I  began  to  beg,  "  let  me  go  with 
Mammy  too,  do  let  me  go,  do,  do."  And  I  begged  and 
cried  with  such  vehemence  that  I  was  finally  lifted  in  the 
carriage  and  sent  off  with  Mammy. 

The  gaol  was  overflowing  with  prisoners,  for  Texas  was  a 
rough  country  in  those  days.  Murderers,  thieves,  deserters 
from  the  army  were  all  crowded  into  one  room.  They  were 
dirty,  unkempt,  desperate,  hard-looking  men,  some  of  them 
with  the  faces  of  ravening  beasts — and  my  father  with  his 
thick  thatch  of  silver  hair,  fine  features,  close-shaven,  bene- 
volent face,  noble  bearing,  spotless  linen  and  fine  broadcloth 
clothes,  looked  a  veritable  king  among  them.  He  was 
sitting  quite  quietly  and  undisturbed,  reading,  perhaps  for 
the  fiftieth  time,  "  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor."  He  had 
taken  it  from  the  table  in  his  office,  and  slipped  it  in  his 
pocket  while  being  arrested.  It  is  for  this  sweet  reason  I 
feel  as  if  Sir  Walter  Scott  were  a  kinsman  of  mine,  and  that 
Scotland  is  so  close  to  my  heart.  It  is  impossible  for  the 
old  world  to  know  the  many  and  tender  bonds  between  it  and 
the  new.  Some  day,  though  God  forbid,  if  a  war  is  declared 
between  England  and  another  power,  the  United  Empire  will, 
if  need  be,  discover  our  unforgotten  love  and  loyalty  to  the 
country  of  our  ancestors. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MY    FATHER    IN    PRISON 

"  Life  is  a  battle,  and  the  successful  soldier  is  he  who  wields  the  sword 
of  Knowledge  and  trembles  not  at  the  threatenings  of  Ignorance." 

MY  beloved  father  in  gaol !  For  a  moment  I  was 
blind  with  rage  and  terror,  then  I  hurled  myself 
at  him  like  a  small  catapult,  gripped  him  around 
the  neck  and  began  to  cry,  woman  fashion,  saying,  "  Oh,  do 
whatever  they  want  you  to  do — only  come  home  with  me, 
come  home  with  your  little  daughter." 

He  soothed  me  and  talked  to  me,  until  I  felt,  as  I  always 
did  in  his  presence,  calm,  and  quiet,  and  reasonable,  even 
though  I,  too,  was  in  gaol.  A  rough  red-faced  soldier  sitting 
on  the  floor  in  the  room  said  to  me,  "  Little  girl,  what  would 
you  do  if  your  father  was  a  hundred  miles  away  ?  "  I  drew 
very  close  to  pappy,  with  the  horrible  idea  making  me  quite 
cold.  Years  afterwards  when  I  had  almost  forgotten  the 
existence  of  this  soldier,  he  wrote  me  a  letter  on  my  father's 
death  to  say  that  he  had  never  forgotten  that  tragic  night 
nor  the  strong  love  between  us,  and  that  he  was  very  sorry 
for  me. 

The  night  of  my  father's  arrest,  my  mother,  Aunt  Polly 
Hynes,  a  young  lady  and  myself  were  sitting  in  my  mother's 
room,  when  it  seemed  to  me  I  heard  at  a  great  distance  a 
trampling  of  many  feet.  My  ears  were  as  keen  in  hearing 
as  the  ears  of  a  Red  Indian,  and  at  once  my  little  figure  was 
alert  and  at  attention.  Standing  up,  I  gasped  out  the 
words  "  Pappy  !  Pappy  !  "  The  others  heard  nothing, 
but  in  a  short  time  the  room  was  filled  with  a  number  of 


"SHE  IS  ALONE  THE  ARABIAN  BIRD" 


MY  FATHER  IN  PRISON  31 

masked  men,  armed  and  terrible-looking,  who  surrounded 
my  father.  He  said  to  my  mother,  "  Marcia,  these  men  are 
taking  me  away,  God  knows  where  ;  give  me  some  money 
and  pack  my  clothes  as  soon  as  you  can.  If  they  murder 
me  I  will  leave  my  sons  to  avenge  my  death."  (Both  my 
brothers  were  away,  soldiers  in  the  Union  Army.) 

My  mother,  suddenly  looking  quite  old  and  white,  began 
to  pack  a  bag,  and  one  of  the  men  called  out,  "  Hurry  up, 
madam.  No  trifling — do  not  keep  us  waiting." 

We  had  a  number  of  negroes  on  the  place  all  loyal  to  my 
father,  and  we  always  had  firearms,  as  we  lived  in  the  country. 
The  negroes  rushed  in  at  this  moment,  carrying  guns,  and  the 
coachman  asked,  "  Shall  we  shoot,  Judge  ?  "  My  father 
seemed  to  consider  for  a  moment — he  did  not  expect  to  live 
an  hour  after  leaving  the  house — and  then  replied,  "  No,  let 
there  be  no  bloodshed — put  down  your  rifles." 

The  negroes  marched  slowly  out,  but  all  the  fearsome 
tension  of  the  atmosphere  was  communicated  to  me.  My 
little  soul  leaped  to  flame,  and  the  white  heat  of  exalted 
detachment  separated  spirit  from  flesh,  making  the  im- 
possible possible.  I  rushed  toward  one  of  the  horrible  black 
masks,  and  screamed  out,  "  Are  you  going  to  hang  my 
pappy  ?  "  The  man  put  out  his  arm  to  ward  me  off.  I 
seized  the  soft  part  of  the  palm  of  his  hand  in  my  strong, 
sharp  little  teeth,  biting  a  piece  of  flesh  almost  out  of  the 
hand — I  tore  the  mask  from  his  face,  scratching  his  cheeks, 
and  dragging  at  his  shirt  collar  with  all  my  strength.  He 
swore  at  me,  saying,  "  Hell  and  damnation  !  Take  this 
little  devil  away  !  "  Two  soldiers  seized  me,  and  carried 
me  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  but  I  left  him  a  perfect 
wreck,  blood  streaming  from  his  wounded  hand,  collar  torn 
apart,  and  his  mask  on  the  floor.  He  was  really  only  a  mild 
and  servile  little  shopkeeper  in  the  town,  who  belonged  to 
the  militia,  and  who  had  been  given  a  disagreeable  duty  to 
perform.  When  I  grew  up  and  came  back  from  boarding 
school,  although  he  carried  a  scar  on  his  hand  he  served  me 
many  a  time  quite  amiably  from  his  excellent  shop. 

My  father  was  carried  a  hundred  miles  away  to  be  tried 


32  I  MYSELF 

by  a  court  martial,  but  it  was  practically  the  end  of  the  war, 
so  they  thought  it  better  to  release  him  and  send  him  home 
without  a  trial — and  after  days  and  nights  of  a  horrible, 
heart-eating  anxiety  he  arrived  at  midnight.  My  mother 
almost  died  with  joy,  and  I  awakened  from  a  sound  sleep 
and  thought  it  must  be  a  blissful  dream  until  he  spoke  to  me. 

When  I  grew  up  and  the  family  reproached  my  father 
with  spoiling  me,  saying,  "  If  Betty  told  you  that  white  was 
black  you  would  agree  to  it,"  he  would  place  his  hand 
tenderly  on  mine  and  answer  gently,  "  Well,  you  see,  she's 
the  only  one  of  my  children  who  has  ever  fought  for  me." 
Fought  for  him  !  Oh,  how  willingly  I  would  have  died  for 
him,  then  or  at  any  moment  of  my  life  afterwards. 

I  was  a  very  fearless  child.  The  dark  held  no  terrors 
whatever  for  me,  and  all  animals  I  looked  upon  as  my  own 
particular  friends  and  trusted  companions.  My  father  had 
an  old  race  horse,  an  extraordinarily  intelligent  animal  called 
"  Pomp."  He  had  retired  from  the  race-course,  and  indeed 
from  all  work,  and  led  a  lazy,  luxurious  existence,  as  a 
reward  for  his  past  prowess.  He  would  not  let  anyone  come 
within  a  yard  of  his  heels  without  kicking  out,  most  viciously, 
and  the  little  negroes  of  the  place  were  all  dreadfully  afraid 
of  him.  One  morning,  when  I  was  about  three  years  of 
age,  I  could  be  found  nowhere.  My  father  finally  looked  in 
the  stable  and  saw  Pomp  standing  quite  still,  with  both  my 
arms  clasped  tightly  around  his  wicked  hind  leg ;  but  he 
spared  me,  and  turned  his  intelligent  old  head  and,  my  father 
said,  actually  winked  at  him.  I  have  always  loved  horses  ! 
When  I  was  two  years  old,  my  father  had  a  Mexican  saddle 
made  with  a  pommel  about  the  size  of  a  large  dinner  plate, 
and  I  rode  in  front  of  him  on  this  little  seat,  until  I  was  big 
enough  to  have  a  saddle,  and  pony,  of  my  own.  And  there 
was  a  time  in  my  life  when  I  could  ride  without  any  saddle 
at  all,  but  just  catch  a  horse  by  his  mane,  and  jump  on  his 
bare  back,  and  ride  gaily  away.  I  used  to  love  the  danger 
of  riding  a  wicked  horse,  something  that  had  to  be  blindfolded 
while  I  got  on,  and  then  would  leap  away  like  a  wild  thing, 
and  I  have  been  thrown  dozens  of  times,  but  never  seriously 


MY  FATHER  IN  PRISON  33 

hurt.  One  summer  I  got  hold  of  one  of  the  most  foolish, 
senseless  horses  I  have  ever  seen.  He  shied  at  everything, 
and  would  jump  clear  across  the  road,  at  a  wind-blown  ball 
of  leaves.  And  when  I  was  taken  suddenly  ill,  and  the 
groom  heard  it,  he  said  :  "  Thank  de  good  Lord  for  dat,  if 
Miss  Betty  had  a  kep  on  ridin'  dat  Bob  Lee,  dey  would  sholy 
bin  a  corpse  or  a  cripple  befo  de  summer  was  out." 

I  was  not  only  fond  of  horses,  but  of  every  living  animal, 
and  as  a  child  spent  far  more  time  on  them  than  on  my 
spelling-book,  and  never  forgot  any  need  of  theirs — food, 
or  water,  or  medicine,  if  necessary. 

Mammy  got  me  rather  a  good  breed  of  game  chickens,  and 
one  little  chick  who  lost  its  mother  was  brought  up  in  the 
kitchen  and  became  as  tame  and  intimate  as  a  dog.  He 
had  the  greatest  interest  in  my  teeth,  pecking  at  them  with 
vigour,  and  finding  them  solid,  he  would  turn  a  red  eye  slowly 
on  them  for  a  few  moments,  conclude  he  had  made  a  mistake, 
and  that  with  greater  energy  they  could  be  dislodged,  and 
begin  vigorously  pecking  again.  One  day  my  two  grown 
brothers  discovered  his  worth  and  engaged  him  in  a  cock 
fight.  I  found  him  in  the  evening  all  bedraggled,  his  beautiful 
feathers  clotted  with  blood,  and  one  bright  eye  swollen  and 
closed.  That  night  when  I  said  my  prayers  to  my  father 
the  names  of  my  brothers  were  omitted.  After  the  "  Amen  " 
my  father  inquired,  "  Why  haven't  you  asked  God  to  bless 
your  brothers  ?  "  "  Because,"  I  answered,  "  they  have 
been  fighting  my  chickens,  and  my  cocks  are  all  hurt,  and 
blood  is  on  their  feathers.  I  don't  want  God  to  bless  them." 
"  But,"  said  my  father,  "  you  cannot  be  a  little  Christian 
until  you  ask  God  to  bless  your  brothers."  So  after  various 
arguments  I  was  induced  to  kneel  down,  and  said,  "  Oh, 
God,  bless  my  brothers  "  (a  pause)  "  but  pray  don't  do  it  on 
my  account."  Even  at  a  very  early  age  my  mind  was  a 
logical  one.  I  loved  my  chickens,  therefore  why  love  their 
destroyers  ?  And  even  yet,  after  years  of  an  older  and 
steadier  civilization,  the  utmost  that  I  can  do  is  not  to 
loathe  my  enemies — to  love  them  as  myself  is  quite  beyond 
me.  All  human  beings  are  products  of  their  native  soil. 


34  I  MYSELF 

Texas  is  a  country  of  wild  storms  and  great  tornadoes. 
Nature  there  is  oftentimes  in  her  most  savage  mood.  The 
dusty  road-bed  of  a  river  to-day,  is  the  angry  and  raging 
torrent  of  to-morrow,  sweeping  everything  before  it.  It  is 
said  of  the  native  Texan  like  myself  that  if  he  loves  you  he 
loves  you  all  over  ;  if  he  doesn't,  he  would  just  as  soon  make 
you  cold  as  not.  I  do  so  truly  love  my  friends — their  ways, 
their  eyes,  their  hands,  their  voices,  their  little  peculiarities. 
As  for  my  enemies — well  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MY    FIRST   APPEARANCE   ON    ANY    STAGE 

"  Four  ducks  on  a  pond, 
A  green  bank  beyond ; 
A  blue  sky  of  spring, 
White  clouds  on  the  wing  : 
What  a  little  thing 
To  remember  for  years, 
To  remember  with  tears  !  " 

W.  ALLINGHAM 

A  TRAVELLING  menagerie  came  to  Austin  soon  after 
my  Mammy  was  restored  to  me,  and  I  heard  much 
talk  of  the  lions,  tigers,  elephants,  zebras,  etc.  The 
calvacade  passed  just  in  front  of  our  house — splendid 
knights  in  gold,  scarlet,  orange  and  green,  ladies  on  snow- 
white  horses  in  long  velvet  riding  habits,  hats  with  sweeping 
feathers,  and  lovely  saddlecloths  rich  in  the  glitter  of 
spangles.  And  then  after  this — agony  of  agonies  ! — my 
mother  said  I  was  too  little  to  go  to  the  circus.  I  held  the 
opposite  opinion,  but  she  would  not  relent,  therefore  I  de- 
cided to  take  the  matter  into  my  own  hands. 

There  was  the  question  of  money,  but  this  did  not  in  the 
least  trouble  me.  The  next  day,  after  Mammy  had  made 
me  smart  for  the  afternoon  in  muslin,  lace,  corals  u.nd  blue 
ribbons,  as  soon  as  her  back  was  turned  I  trotted  briskly  off 
in  the  direction  of  the  shining  tents.  On  arriving  there  I 
asked  the  man  at  the  door  if  I  could  go  in,  and  he  inquired 
who  I  was.  I  drew  myself  up  and  said  I  was  Betty  Paschal, 
and  he  smiled  and  lifted  the  curtain  of  the  tent  and  said  he 
reckoned  Betty  Paschal  would  have  to  go  in,  and  I  found 
myself  alone,  but  not  a  bit  afraid.  I  walked  around,  and 
stood  all  admiration  before  the  array  of  living  curiosities — 

3$ 


36  I  MYSELF 

the  Fat  Woman,  the  Living  Skeleton,  the  Snake  Charmer, 
the  Knife  Swallower,  and  the  Tattooed  Man.  The  Fat 
Woman,  a  girl  of  about  twenty,  was  lovely — I  gazed  at  her 
with  eyes  distended  by  admiration  ;  she  was  dressed  in  a 
white  flowered  muslin,  a  pink  sash,  wide  pink  kid  slippers, 
and,  like  the  old  song,  she  wore  a  wreath  of  roses.  Her  hair 
was  a  pretty  nut-brown,  her  eyes  were  the  same  colour, 
she  had  dimples  and  a  wide  fresh  mouth  filled  with  white 
teeth.  Her  lips  parted  in  a  smile  and  the  dimples  deepened 
when  she  saw  me,  and  she  said  to  one  of  the  attendants, 
"  Say,  is  that  little  girl  all  by  herself  ?  "  He  said  I  was,  and 
she  told  him  to  lift  me  up  and  place  me  on  her  knees.  What 
a  roomy,  capacious  seat  it  was  !  The  Living  Skeleton  pro- 
vided me  with  long  sticks  of  red  and  white  striped  candy,  the 
Tattooed  Man  chucked  me  under  the  chin,  and  there  I  sat, 
adorably  happy,  when  an  anxious  clamour  arose  outside, 
followed  by  the  appearance  of — my  father,  my  mother,  and 
Mammy.  I  wept  when  I  left  the  Fat  Lady,  and  we  parted 
with  many  embraces — and  the  joy  at  my  recovery  was  too 
great  for  any  reproaches  to  follow.  Sawdust  to  this  day 
has  an  agreeable  odour  in  my  nostrils — it  is  connected  with 
my  first  appearance  on  any  stage. 

When  I  was  five  years  old  my  father  had  spent  three 
thousand  dollars  on  toys  for  me.  How  rich  I  should  be 
with  that  amount  of  money  now  !  And  beside  playthings 
of  every  imaginable  kind,  there  were  innumerable  dolls — 
white  and  black,  large  and  small,  of  wax,  of  china,  and  of 
alabaster.  I  loved  them  all,  but  my  heart's  favourite  was 
a  large  wax  doll  christened  "  Mary  Llewellen,"  and  lovingly 
shortened  to  "  Mary  Lou."  I  had  kissed  Mary  Lou's  once 
ruddy  cheeks  pale,  and  her  once  scarlet  lips  to  anaemic  pink, 
her  abundant  curls  were  worn  away,  and  her  hair  was  as 
short  as  a  boy's,  but  her  black  eyes  still  sparkled.  Her  body 
was  large  and  comfortable,  and  when  she  was  in  my  arms 
I  felt  as  though  I  were  holding  something  solid,  and  her  arms, 
and  hands,  and  feet,  were  soft  kid.  The  other  dolls  were  laid 
in  neat  rows  in  their  beds  at  night,  but  Mary  Lou  in  a  ruffled 
nightgown  always  slept  with  me,  and  to  her  I  confided  every 


MY  FIRST  APPEARANCE  ON  ANY  STAGE  37 

secret  and  aspiration  of  my  life.  Every  day  I  gave  her  a 
nice  dinner  on  a  little  pewter  plate,  and  every  morning  a 
thimbleful  of  coffee  in  a  tiny  pewter  cup.  Mammy  made 
her  a  delicious  cake  for  her  birthday,  which  I  was  obliged  to 
eat  for  her — and  Mary  Lou  was  my  inseparable  companion  ; 
even  when  I  rode  on  the  big  flat  pommel  of  the  Mexican 
saddle  in  front  of  my  father,  Mary  Lou  was  gathered  in  my 
arms  and  rode  too.  Her  clothes  went  to  the  wash  with 
mine,  and  we  wore  the  same  coloured  sashes  and  hair  ribbons. 
And  when  I  was  ill  of  a  fever  for  a  fortnight,  Mary  Lou 
lay  cradled  in  the  hollow  of  my  arm,  and  never  left  me  for 
a  moment,  night  or  day. 

About  Christmas  time  Mary  Lou  and  I  were  constantly 
sent  out  of  the  sitting-room.  My  mother  told  me  that 
Santa  Claus  was  going  to  give  me  a  wonderful  Christmas, 
and  asked  what  he  should  bring  me.  I  said  a  new  dress  and 
new  shoes  for  Mary  Lou. 

Christmas  morning  I  was  awakened  by  the  servants  all 
calling  out  "  Christmas  gift  !  Christmas  gift !  "  I  put  out 
my  hand  for  Mary  Lou.  She  was  gone  !  "  Mary  Lou,"  I 
cried,  in  great  anxiety,  "  Oh,  darling,  where  are  you  ?  " 

My  mother  caught  me  up,  wrapped  a  shawl  about  me, 
saying,  "  It's  all  right,"  and  carried  me  to  the  fireplace, 
where  a  wood  fire  sparkled  and  roared,  and  there  set  out 
were  all  my  wonderful  toys.  The  best  cabinetmaker  in 
Austin  had  been  employed  to  make  a  little  walnut  bedstead 
with  a  carved  head  board,  a  real  mattress,  bolster  and 
pillows,  and  Aunt  Polly  Hynes  and  my  mother  had  sewn 
little  embroidered  linen  pillow-cases  and  sheets,  ribbon- 
bound  blankets,  and  a  satin  coverlet.  There  was  a  little 
dressing-table  with  a  pretty  oval  looking-glass  bound  in 
brass,  a  rocking  chair,  a  washstand,  with  a  bowl  and  jug  of 
fine  china,  and  in  the  rocking-chair  a  large  new  beautiful 
wax  doll,  who  could  open  and  shut  her  eyes  and  say  "  Mama 
— Papa."  Her  fair  golden  hair  hung  to  her  waist,  her  ruby 
lips  were  parted  in  a  smile,  disclosing  four  little  white  teeth. 
The  best  (described  by  Aunt  Polly  Hynes  as)  "  mantua- 
maker  "  (such  a  dear  old  word)  had  made  her  frock,  which 


38  I  MYSELF 

was  of  stiff  blue  satin  softened  with  blonde  lace,  and  her  hat 
was  of  shirred  white  velvet  trimmed  in  bunches  of  little 
gold  grapes  and  a  blue  feather.  Her  lingerie  was  of  the  most 
exquisite,  and  she  wore  open-work  socks  and  blue  shoes, 
while  by  her  side  stood  a  little  blue  silk  parasol,  and  in  her 
lap  was  a  tiny  bouquet  of  roses.  But  none  of  this  elegance 
gave  me  any  pleasure,  and  even  at  the  age  of  four  I  delighted 
in  beauty  and  daintiness,  for — horror  of  horrors  ! — sitting 
on  the  floor  at  the  feet  of  this  beautiful  intruder,  in  a  stiffly 
starched  pink  calico  frock,  white  apron  and  white  cap, 
degraded  from  her  high  estate  into  a  lady's  maid,  was  my 
best  beloved  child,  Mary  Lou  !  Her  eyes  seemed  to  me  full 
of  sadness  and  reproach. 

"  Mary  Lou,  oh,  Mary  Lou,"  I  cried,  "  I  didn't  do  it  I 
Your  mother  didn't  do  it !  I  love  you  the  best.  Oh,  Mary 
Lou,  I'm  so  sorry  !  "  And  all  the  time  I  was  undressing 
her  with  trembling  fingers,  and  then  I  tore  the  clothes  off 
the  intruder  and  gave  them  to  Mary  Lou.  The  hat  wasn't 
a  bit  becoming,  but  she  wore  it.  Only  the  blue  shoes  were 
left  to  the  intruder — they  were  too  small  for  Mary  Lou's 
ample  feet. 

My  mother  was  grievously  disappointed.  There  was  I, 
on  Christmas  morning,  after  all  her  work  and  trouble,  in  a 
passion  of  tears.  I  remember  her  plaintively  complaining 
to  my  father  that  I  was  "  such  an  odd  child,"  and  he  said 
very  tenderly,  "  Forgive  her,  Marcia.  She  will  suffer 
enough  pain  through  that  faithful  heart  of  hers." 

How  sad  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  known  how  much  ! 


CHAPTER  IX 

AUNT  MARY   THE  ANGEL 

"  Oh  1  friends  regretted,  scenes  for  ever  dear, 
Remembrance  hails  you  with  her  warmest  tear  t 
Drooping,  she  bends  o'er  pensive  Fancy's  urn, 
To  trace  the  hours  which  never  can  return." 

BYRON 

I  MUST  not  forget  one  of  the  cruellest  disappointments 
of  my  childhood.  My  aunt  Mary  (Mrs  Matthew 
Hayes)  was  an  angel  upon  earth,  a  real,  veritable 
angel  dropped  from  heaven  by  accident.  She  had  married, 
very  young,  a  Dr  Atkinson,  who  was  extremely  handsome, 
a  splendid  dancer,  a  bold  rider,  the  possessor  of  a  good 
baritone  voice,  great  charm  of  manner,  and  very  popular. 
Consequently  he  was  in  great  demand  socially,  and  Aunt 
Mary  led  a  lonely  life.  A  few  years  after  their  marriage  he 
died,  and  left  her  a  widow  with  one  beautiful  little  girl, 
Ellen  Atkinson,  who  inherited  all  her  father's  great  charm 
and  good  looks.  What  lovely  arch  blue  eyes  she  had,  with 
dainty  pencilled  black  eyebrows,  and  the  most  winning 
ways.  I  adored  her  as  a  child  :  to  go  and  see  Cousin  Ellen 
was  one  of  my  greatest  treats. 

After  Dr  Atkinson's  death  Aunt  Mary  announced  to  the 
family  that  if  she  married  again  it  would  be  the  ugliest  man 
she  could  find,  and  one  day  in  Galveston  she  came  back  to 
my  mother  and  said,  "  Marcia,  I've  seen  the  man-^I  met 
him  on  the  street  to-day,  and  he  is  ugly  enough  to  suit  even 
me,  and  I'm  sure  he  can't  sing." 

This  bit  of  nonsense  proved  to  be  prophetic.  She  married 
the  man,  and  he  was  undoubtedly  plain,  but  he  had  one  of 

39 


40  I  MYSELF 

the  most  musical  speaking  voices  I  have  ever  heard,  and  in 
spite  of  his  ill  assorted  features  he  looked  what  he  was — a 
distinguished  gentleman.  He  adored  Aunt  Mary  as  a  saint 
in  a  niche,  and  little  Ellen  was  as  dear  to  him  as  his  own 
children — there  were  five  in  family,  three  boys  and  two 
girls.  Aunt  Mary  had  an  undestroyably  happy  and  cheer- 
ful disposition  and  a  lovely  sweet  face.  My  mother  used 
to  call  it  a  "  how-de-do  face."  One  of  the  stories  told  of 
her  was,  that  in  a  shop  a  man  was  trying  on  a  coat,  and  he 
observed  Aunt  Mary's  look  of  solicitous  interest,  and  turned 
to  her  saying,  "  Madam,  excuse  me,  but  my  wife  could  not 
accompany  me  to-day — will  you  look  and  see  how  this  coat 
fits  in  the  back  ?  " 

Such  a  thing  as  a  trained  nurse  was  unknown  to  Austin 
in  those  days,  and  we  were  not  scientific  or  careful,  so 
typhoid  and  other  fevers  were  constantly  occurring,  and 
Aunt  Mary  was  continually  sent  for,  to  nurse  the  sick.  She 
would  arrange  her  household  affairs  and  go  for  two  or  three 
days,  sitting  night  and  day  with  the  patient.  Uncle  Matthew 
used  to  make  a  protest,  but  there  was  nobody  like  Mrs 
Hayes.  If  anybody  died  a  carriage  was  at  once  sent  for  Mrs 
Hayes  to  comfort  the  afflicted  family.  If  there  was  a  bazaar 
Aunt  Mary's  busy  clever  hands  made  half  the  objects  for 
the  stalls.  She  could  embroider  beautifully,  she  was  an 
exquisite  needlewoman,  and  she  had  a  wonderfully  artistic 
sense  of  colour.  She  could  trim  hats  and  design  dresses,  and 
she  was  a  good  cook — and  of  course  never  idle  for  one  single 
moment  of  her  busy,  unselfish  life.  Novels  she  loved  and 
devoured.  Her  one  recreation  was  reading  whenever  she 
could  find  the  time. 

Like  my  grandfather,  Governor  Duval,  Aunt  Mary  was 
the  very  soul  of  hospitality.  The  Atkinson  house  was  an 
odd  rambling  bungalow  sort  of  affair,  with  a  great  number 
of  rooms.  Whenever  Uncle  Matthew  could  afford  it  he  built 
an  additional  room — it  made  no  difference  how  the  room 
lay — sometimes  it  was  not  connected  with  the  main  house 
at  all,  but  joined  on  by  a  covered  archway.  And  rooms 
were  always  occupied  by  Aunt  Mary's  kinfolks  and  the  boys' 


AUNT  MARY  THE  ANGEL  41 

friends  and  the  girls'  friends,  and  "  the  weak -hearted  and 
the  afflicted,"  for  being  near  Aunt  Mary  was  like  being 
bathed  in  sunshine.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  persistently 
optimistic  nature  as  hers.  Hope  radiated  from  her  eyes, 
and  her  lips  were  always  ready  to  curve  into  a  smile  and  to 
speak  words  of  cheerful  comfort.  Of  course  Fate  bore  down 
upon  her  radiance  with  a  malice  and  a  cruelty  rarely  equalled. 

I  remember  when  my  baby  was  a  few  months  old  I  went 
to  Texas  to  spend  the  summer,  and  we  occupied  a  sort  of 
wing  connected  with  the  main  house  by  a  little  covered  way, 
one  of  the  latest  developments  of  the  bungalow.  All  the 
other  rooms  were  filled,  and  this  happened  to  be  the  quietest 
place  in  the  house.  One  evening,  when  fourteen  or  sixteen 
people  were  expected  to  dinner,  a  carriage  drove  around  the 
back  way,  and  Aunt  Mary's  eldest  son,  quite  insensible,  was 
lifted  out  and  carried  to  his  own  room.  He  was  frightfully 
ill,  and  had  been  drinking  heavily  for  days.  It  was  terribly 
sad,  for  Frank  was  a  dear,  kind  fellow,  and  had  it  in  his 
power  to  give  the  people  who  loved  him  a  dreadfully  sick 
heart.  In  a  few  moments  I  left  the  parlour  and  went  to 
my  bedroom,  and  there  I  found  Aunt  Mary  on  her  knees, 
praying,  and  perfectly  convulsed  with  sobs.  I  closed  my 
door  softly  and  went  back  to  the  parlour.  A  little  later  I 
heard  a  splashing  of  cold  water  in  her  room,  where  the  guests 
were  taking  off  their  light  wraps,  and  she  came  out  with  her 
face  quite  fresh,  dressed  in  a  lavender  muslin,  and  she  was 
by  far  the  most  cheerful  person  at  the  dinner.  She  had  that 
gift  from  God,  a  perfect  faith  in  a  future  life,  and  in  His 
goodness — how  indeed  could  she  doubt  it,  when  she  possessed 
so  much  of  her  own  ? 

Among  the  servants  that  summer  were  a  girl  named  Adler, 
and  Willy,  two  young  Swedes.  They  were  very  rough,  and 
could  speak  scarcely  any  English.  Aunt  Mary  became  sus- 
picious about  Adler,  and  soon  found  that  her  suspicions  were 
justified.  On  inquiring  into  the  situation  she  found  that 
Willy  was  quite  willing  to  marry  the  girl,  only  he  would 
not  pay  either  for  a  marriage  licence  or  the  minister's  fee. 
And  he  was  getting  thirty  dollars  a  month  and  Adler  twenty- 


42  I  MYSELF 

five — between  them  nine  pounds  a  month.  But  neither 
appeals  nor  bullying  moved  the  thrifty  William,  so  the  end  of 
it  was,  that  Aunt  Mary  bought  the  licence,  paid  the  young 
clergyman  who  officiated,  gave  Adler  a  wedding  gown,  and 
the  next  week  paid  the  doctor  who  ushered  into  the  world, 
a  free-born  American  citizen.  I  hear  that  Adler  and  Willy 
are  now  among  the  prosperous  landholders  of  Austin. 

Children  are  unerring  in  finding  out  their  friends,  and 
when  we  were  all  little  girls  and  boys,  my  cousins  and  myself, 
Aunt  Mary's  house  was  overrun  with  children.  There  we 
foregathered  whenever  we  could,  and  one  winter  things  were 
planned  out  and  done  on  a  grand  scale.  There  was  a  stage 
built  in  one  end  of  the  drawing-room,  and  we  were  to  have 
one  evening  of  wondrous  tableaux.  I  was  to  do  the  "  Sleep- 
ing Beauty."  The  part  did  not  appeal  to  me  one  bit,  but 
it  was  so  much  better  than  nothing  that  I  consented. 

Under  Aunt  Mary's  guidance  the  girls  worked  for  months. 
They  sewed  great  wings,  and  spangled  dresses  and  silvered 
slippers,  and  painted  wands,  and  made  tassels  and  caps,  and 
borrowed  properties — and  at  last  the  night  of  nights  arrived. 
Of  course  all  the  girls  wanted  to  be  in  the  tableaux,  conse- 
quently the  audience  was  entirely  composed  of  boys.  There 
was  a  lovely  supper  prepared  in  the  dining-room,  of  delicate 
ham  sandwiches,  chicken  sandwiches,  big  iced  cakes,  jellies, 
ice  creams,  lemonade,  and  claret  cup — and  the  evening 
promised  to  be  one  of  unalloyed  bliss. 

The  curtain  went  up  on  "  The  Peri's  Lament."  The  stage 
really  looked  lovely — it  was  covered  with  moss  and  sea- 
shells,  and  on  a  sort  of  flowered  mound  lay  the  Araby's 
daughter,  very  pink  and  smiling,  but  drowned,  of  course, 
and  surrounded  by  peris — charming  beings  in  perfectly  dry 
spangled  dresses,  with  big  white  wings  at  the  back — and  in 
their  clear  children's  voices  they  sang  : 

Farewell — farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter  ! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea,) 
No  pearl  ever  lay  under  Oman's  green  water 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  Spirit  in  thee. 


AUNT  MARY  THE  ANGEL  43 

Oh  !  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to  thee  growing, 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  love's  witchery  came, 

Like  the  wind  of  the  south  o'er  a  summer  lute  blowing, 
And  hush'd  all  its  music,  and  wither'd  its  frame. 

But  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  highlands, 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

Of  her  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl  Islands, 
With  nought  but  a  sea-star  to  light  up  her  tomb. 


Vociferous  applause,  and  the  curtain  went  down. 

Tableau  after  tableau  followed,  until  a  good  deal  of 
scuffling  and  shuffling  was  noticeable  among  the  audience. 
The  boys  were  evidently  getting  hungry.  The  applause 
died  away,  but  still  the  tableaux  followed  on.  I  wanted 
to  get  on  my  "  Sleeping  Beauty  "  dress,  but  nobody  had  any 
time  to  help  me.  Finally,  as  we  thought,  the  curtain  went 
up  on  a  scene  of  surpassing  beauty — the  Fairy  Queen,  sur- 
rounded by  her  maids  of  honour,  one  bearing  a  tray  and 
offering  it  to  her  with  a  cake  and  a  small  sugar  ballerina  in 
the  middle  of  it.  With  this  apparition  the  already  whetted 
appetites  of  the  boys  immediately  asserted  themselves — 
the  audience  en  masse  rose  to  their  feet,  and  the  ringleader 
said :  "  We've  had  enough  tableaux,  we're  going  to 
supper." 

Nannie  Hayes,  the  Fairy  Queen,  had  a  fiery  temper.  She 
rushed  through  her  cohort  of  handmaidens,  her  black  eyes 
flashing  fire,  and  stood  perilously  close  to  the  footlights  and 
said,  "  Oh,  you  wicked,  ungrateful  boys !  Here  we've 
worked  the  whole  winter  on  these  tableaux,  and  now  you 
don't  want  to  see  them  !  Sit  down  this  minute,  or  I'll  go 
straight  and  tell  father,  and  you  will  none  of  you  get  any 
supper.  Sit  down,  I  say." 

The  audience  muttered,  conferred  together,  then  gloomily 
sat  through  three  more  tableaux,  when  again  there  was  a 
strike,  and  Frank  as  the  spokesman  said  they  would  rather 
starve  than  see  another  tableau.  By  this  time  I  was  quietly 
weeping,  and  the  Fairy  Queen,  who  had  a  very  kind  heart, 


44  I  MYSELF 

said,  "  Well,  will  you  see  just  one  more  ?  Betty  Paschal  as 
the  "  Sleeping  Beauty  "  ? 

"  What,  that  torn-boy  !  "  Frank  said.  "  Never  !  She 
isn't  a  beauty  and  we  don't  care  to  see  her  sleep  as  one.  Not 
if  you  lock  the  dining-room  door."  And  the  audience  then 
and  there  filed  out. 

I  fished,  and  ran  races,  and  climbed  trees,  and  played 
marbles  with  the  boys,  and  they  liked  me  as  another  boy, 
but  all  the  girls  had  sweethearts — I  had  none,  and  there 
were  many  incipient  hopes  bound  up  in  that  "  Sleeping 
Beauty  "  tableau  that,  alas !  like  so  much  else  in  my  life, 
was  only  a  tantalizing,  vanishing  dream. 


CHAPTER  X 

MY    MOTHER'S  DEATH 

"  0  sir  !    The  good  die  first, 
And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket."  WORDSWORTH 

ALL  only  children  (I  was  the  young  belated  one  in 
our  family)  long  for  little  brothers  and  sisters,  and 
I,  so  full  of  affection  and  so  eager  for  companion- 
ship, longed  for  them  more  than  most,  but  my  nearest 
approach  to  this  relationship  was  a  little  adopted  brother 
who  lived  near  us.  "  Miss  Jenny,"  as  I  called  his  mother, 
put  him  in  my  arms  a  few  days  after  he  was  born,  and  gave 
him  to  me  as  a  brother.  He  was  very  small,  and  always 
remained  frail  and  delicate,  like  a  little  snowdrop.  "  Miss 
Jenny  "  (Mrs  Scott)  was  a  beautiful  tall  girl  with  a  heavy 
veil  of  hair  that  reached  her  knees.  I  loved  the  mother, 
but  I  adored  the  child.  Every  moment  I  could  spare  from 
lessons  I  spent  playing  with  him,  and  he  loved  me,  and 
cooed  and  crowed  for  joy  at  my  appearance.  When  he 
was  nine  months  old  he  sickened  and  died.  I  was  allowed 
to  kiss  the  sweet  little  waxen  face  in  the  white-satin-lined 
coffin,  and  when  it  was  taken  out  of  the  house  it  really 
seemed  to  me  that  my  heart  was  going  to  be  buried  too, 
and  I  grieved  literally  for  months.  Miss  Jenny  gave  me  his 
little  white  sunbonnet,  exquisitely  made  by  herself,  all 
stitched  with  cords  and  delicately  ruffled,  and  until  I  was 
married  I  always  carried  that  white  sunbonnet  of  little 
Jimmy's  with  me  wherever  I  went.  My  own  baby  wore  it 
afterward,  and  I  have  the  little  bonnet  still. 

When  I  should  have  been  beginning  my  lessons  the  war 

45 


46  I  MYSELF 

was  ending.  My  brothers  came  home  from  the  army,  my 
father  went  north  on  business,  and  while  he  was  away  my 
mother  died  from  heart  disease.  Telegraphic  communica- 
tion was  difficult  in  those  days,  the  wires  were  down,  the 
postal  service  was  greatly  disturbed,  and  the  first  intimation 
my  father  received  of  my  mother's  death  was  from  a  news- 
paper which  he  was  reading  while  crossing  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico  between  New  Orleans  and  Galveston.  He  told  me 
afterwards  that  his  first  impulse  was  to  throw  himself  into 
the  sea,  he  felt  life  would  be  so  valueless  without  her.  Then 
he  remembered  his  little  girl,  suddenly  left  motherless,  and 
the  impulse  passed,  leaving  only  a  paralysing  sense  of  loss. 
But  a  nature  so  unselfish  as  his  quite  recovered  in  time  ; 
his  purposes,  and  his  efforts,  and  services  had  always  been 
for  other  people,  and  the  unselfish  and  self-forgetful  ones  of 
the  earth  never,  in  spite  of  grief,  wholly  lose  their  interest 
in  things  and  in  people  while  life  lasts. 

My  mother  was,  so  I  have  been  told,  a  woman  of  remark- 
able force  of  character.  She  was  in  her  youth  very  beautiful, 
small  and  compact  of  stature,  with  a  white  skin,  large  blue 
eyes,  a  straight  nose,  a  pretty  mouth,  a  square  chin,  reddish 
hair,  and  tiny  hands  and  feet.  She  had  a  great  sense  of 
humour,  a  beautiful  voice — accompanying  herself  on  the 
guitar  on  summer  evenings  when  it  was  too  hot  to  sit  in- 
doors— and  she  was  a  celebrated  cook  and  housekeeper. 
Her  garden  was  a  curiosity  of  the  town,  with  its  myriads  of 
flowers.  If  she  had  lived  my  habit  of  procrastination  would 
have  been  cured,  and  other  traits  corrected  that  have  miti- 
gated against  my  success  in  life.  She  insisted  on  my  dress- 
ing promptly,  and  not,  with  one  stocking  on,  sitting  dreaming 
with  the  other  in  hand,  a  habit  that  pursues  me  even  to  this 
day.  She  possessed  that  rarest  and  most  valuable  sense — 
common-sense — to  a  remarkable  degree,  and  her  advice  was 
asked  by  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people.  She  kept  her 
large  family  of  brothers,  sisters,  cousins,  nephews,  nieces, 
third  and  fourth  cousins,  together  in  love  and  amity,  feeling 
the  obligation  of  the  tie  of  blood  to  be  indissoluble.  If  any 
disputes  or  worries  or  disagreements  arose,  my  mother  ended 


MY  MOTHER'S  DEATH  47 

the  conference  with  these  words  :  "  He's  your  kin — there 
is  nothing  else  to  do  but  stand  by  him  " — and  stand  by  him 
they  did.  I  have  never  seen  in  any  family  such  a  sense  of 
loyalty,  of  obligation,  of  affection  and  unselfishness,  as  among 
my  mother's  people. 

Just  at  the  end  of  the  war  my  Mammy  came  to  my  mother 
and  told  her  that  Charlotte,  a  negro  woman  who  belonged  to 
one  of  the  neighbours,  was  in  her  cabin  suffering  from  an 
accident ;  her  mistress  had  thrown  a  flat  iron  at  her  and 
broken  her  arm,  and  had  then  in  a  fit  of  temper  ordered  her 
to  continue  her  work,  which  she  did  with  one  arm  (she  was 
scrubbing  the  floor),  but  when  night  came  she  ran  away.  I 
forget  what  the  law  was  for  harbouring  a  runaway  negro, 
but  it  was  very  severe.  My  mother  decided  to  keep 
Charlotte  and  hide  her  until  her  arm  was  well.  So  good  old 
Dr  Baker  was  sent  for,  Charlotte's  arm  was  put  into  splints, 
and  no  one  except  my  mother  and  Mammy  knew  her  where- 
abouts, and  she  remained  in  Mammy's  cabin  until  her  arm 
was  quite  cured.  She  was  a  big  woman  and  as  powerful  as  a 
man. 

During  my  mother's  last  illness  Charlotte  never  left  her, 
all  the  time  carrying  her  from  her  bed  to  a  couch  on  the 
balcony  with  as  much  ease  as  if  she  had  been  a  child — and  it 
was  Charlotte's  black  hand  that  closed  my  mother's  eyes 
with  grief  and  lamentation  when  she  died,  and  afterwards 
she  and  her  little  black  baby,  Pony,  became  a  sort  of  re- 
sponsibility and  legacy  to  the  family.  Pony,  by  the  way, 
became  a  mother  at  the  tender  age  of  fourteen,  but  Charlotte 
said  it  was  only  an  accident,  "  an  dat  Pony  didn't  mean 
nuffin  by  it."  Virtue  was  not  in  those  days  expected  in  the 
negro,  but  a  want  of  virtue  in  a  white  woman  was  unforgiv- 
able. Everyone  knows  Hawthorne's  story  of  "  The  Scarlet 
Letter "  and  the  terrible  sentence  meted  out  to  Hester 
Prynne.  Really,  it  was  no  great  exaggeration  of  the  state  of 
affairs  in  Texas  when  I  was  a  child.  If  a  man  compromised 
the  wife  or  daughter  of  another  man,  he  knew  the  conse- 
quence beforehand.  He  paid  for  it  with  his  life. 

There  were  many  more  men  than  women  in  Texas ;  every 


48  I  MYSELF 

woman,  pretty  or  ugly,  could  marry  some  sort  of  man  ;  there- 
fore morality  was  demanded  of  her,  and  after  marriage  her 
flirtations  were  at  an  end.  As  for  the  cocottes  of  the  town, 
they  were  worse  than  lepers.  They  were  not  even  spoken  of. 
And  yet  beautiful  low-necked  ladies,  with  roses  in  their  hair, 
and  diaphanous,  flowered  dresses,  came  out  about  sunset  with 
fluffy  parasols  over  their  heads  and  paraded  the  town.  I 
used  to  wonder  who  they  were.  One  of  them  I  admired 
exceedingly ;  she  was  very  tall,  with  hair  like  satin,  lively 
black  eyes,  and  always  wore  white.  She  managed  to  give 
me  a  bonny  smile  when  she  passed,  though  Mammy  had 
ordered  me  to  turn  my  head  directly  away  from  these  fascinat- 
ing, mysterious  beings.  When  I  grew  up  I  was  told  that  the 
tall  one,  called  Sue  Thomas,  had  married  a  young  man,  a 
friend  of  the  family,  of  good  birth,  means  and  position,  who 
had  conceived  a  hopeless  passion  for  her,  and  they  had 
started  for  a  new  life  in  Mexico,  but  had  both  been  murdered 
on  the  way. 

One  of  our  negroes  had  made  an  arrangement  with  my 
mother  to  pay  for  her  own  hire,  and  do  what  she  liked  with 
her  time — that  is,  she  paid  my  mother  ten  dollars  a  month, 
and  set  up  a  laundry  for  herself,  making  much  more  than 
this  sum,  as  she  was  a  genius  in  washing  fine  muslins  and 
Valenciennes  laces  and  the  exquisite  organdies  worn  in  the 
South.  One  of  her  customers  was  a  lady  of  the  parasol,  and 
she  was  ill,  heart-sick,  home-sick  and  repentant.  She  came 
from  Kentucky,  having  been,  like  my  mother,  educated  in  her 
innocent  and  happier  youth  at  Bardstown  Convent.  Finally 
after  she  became  very  ill,  she  was  installed,  as  so  many  of  the 
lame,  halt,  and  blind  had  been  before  her,  in  Mammy's  cabin, 
with  Mammy  and  my  mother  to  nurse  her  until  she  could 
start  for  home,  my  mother  undertaking  to  pay  her  travelling 
expenses. 

Wandering  about  the  place  one  evening,  I  heard  a  hollow 
cough  in  Mammy's  cabin,  and  when  I  entered  there  was  a 
lovely  lady  with  plaits  of  molasses-coloured  hair,  blue  eyes, 
and  of  a  ravishing  beauty  to  me.  She  wore  a  blue  muslin 
much  beruffled,  and  prettier  than  any  of  my  mother's  frocks, 


MY  MOTHER'S  DEATH  49 

and  I  really  thought  she  must  be  a  princess.  Mammy  had 
often  told  me  of  fairy  princesses,  and  here  she  was  concealing 
one  in  her  cabin. 

My  mother  was  vexed  to  find  me  there,  and  told  me  to 
run  back  to  the  house.  Very  unwillingly  I  obeyed  her,  and 
when  next  I  stole  away  to  Mammy's  cabin  it  was  empty 
and  silent  except  for  the  sunbeams  slanting  in  at  the  door, 
and  a  mocking  bird  singing  in  a  fruit-laden  fig-tree  outside 
the  window.  The  lady  of  the  parasol  had  gone  home  to 
Kentucky  to  die ;  but  that  I  was  not  to  hear  until  many 
years  afterward. 

My  mother  hated  show  and  pretension  and  falseness  and 
hypocrisy,  but  she  had  the  tenderest  heart  in  the  world  for 
sin,  poverty  and  misfortune.  Her  death  was  not  only  a  loss 
to  her  own  family  but  a  loss  to  the  whole  town  where  she 
lived,  for  she  had  literally  "  clothed  the  naked  and  fed  the 
hungry,  and  been  a  ministering  angel  to  the  sorrowing  and 
afflicted." 


CHAPTER     XI 

FOR  LOVE'S  DEAR  SAKE 

I  love  her3  but  tenderness  obscures  passion  and  respect  holds  it 
at  bay. 

AFTER  my  mother's  death  I  lived  with  my  aunt,  Mrs 
Beale,  until  my  father  decided  to  send  me  to  board- 
ing school  in  the  North.     At  this  period  of  my  life 
Aunt  Lizzie  occupied  the  place  next  my  father  in  my  heart, 
and  until  her  death  we  loved  each  other  tenderly  and  de- 
votedly. 

Love,  sympathy  and  understanding  are  totally  indescrib- 
able and  mysterious  things.  Two  quite  excellent  people  may 
take  a  decided  dislike  to  each  other,  and  two  quite  un- 
excellent  people  very  often  are  held  together  by  some  secret 
bond  of  sympathy  throughout  a  long  life.  Between  my 
mother  and  her  eldest  sister  was  the  most  perfect  understand- 
ing I  have  ever  seen  between  sisters,  and  they  managed,  except 
for  short  periods,  never  to  be  separated.  My  aunt  married 
a  gentleman  who  had  a  plantation  in  Kentucky,  and  my 
mother  ran  away  from  school  at  the  early  age  of  fifteen  and 
married,  as  her  first  husband,  a  young  surgeon  in  the  navy. 
During  the  winters  Aunt  Lizzie  visited  my  mother,  and  the 
summers  my  mother  spent  with  my  aunt  at  her  plantation  in 
Kentucky  ;  and  whatever  the  sorrows,  troubles  or  anxieties 
of  these  two  ladies  were,  they  were  lightened  by  the  love, 
congenial  companionship  and  sympathy  of  one  for  the  other. 
When  I  was  born,  I  was  named  after  my  aunt  Elizabeth, 
and  one  of  my  earliest  recollections  is  of  her.  She  was  a  very 
beautiful  woman,  and  she  had  what  I  should  call  an  old- 
fashioned  skin.  The  girls  of  the  present  day  have  very  often 
so 


FOR  LOVE'S  DEAR  SAKE  51 

fresh  and  healthy  complexions,  but  they  are  apt  to  be  a  little 
tanned  by  the  sun,  or  roughened  by  the  wind,  and  the  quality 
is  not  always  fine.  My  Aunt  Elizabeth's  complexion  was 
dazzlingly  beautiful ;  even  with  a  magnifying  glass  it  was  as 
smooth  as  satin  ;  there  was  not  a  spot  or  a  freckle  or  an  im- 
perfection on  this  white  and  pink  velvet  texture.  She  had 
large  blue  eyes,  with  black  lashes,  neatly  marked  eyebrows, 
a  small  straight  nose,  a  rosebud,  smiling  mouth  and  even 
teeth  ;  her  head  was  proudly  placed  upon  her  shoulders,  and 
it  was  covered  with  brown,  waving  hair  that  in  the  strong 
sunlight  showed  glints  of  gold.  She  had  an  upright,  faultless 
figure,  fairy  feet,  for  she  wore,  I  recollect,  No.  I  shoes,  and 
she  always  had  difficulty  in  finding  5^  gloves  for  her  small 
white  hands.  She  took  the  greatest  care  of  herself,  wearing 
a  green  veil  if  the  sun  was  hot,  never  exposing  herself  to  a 
strong  wind  that  would  dry  her  skin,  and  when  she  sat  down 
to  read,  as  she  did  for  hours  together,  she  always  wore  gloves. 
She  did  not  marry  until,  as  was  considered  in  those  days,  she 
was  quite  an  old  maid — that  is,  she  was  twenty-six,  and  one  of 
my  younger  aunts  had  kept  a  list  of  the  men  who  had  asked 
her  to  marry  them.  There  were  twenty-seven  would-be 
husbands,  and  all  her  life  long  she  never  ceased  to  receive 
admiration.  Besides  her  very  great  beauty  she  was  witty, 
well  read,  very  large  minded,  and  a  woman  of  extremely 
independent  character.  In  her  youth,  when  my  grandfather 
was  Governor  of  Florida,  she  had  spent  several  winters  in 
Washington,  and  her  nieces  were  much  interested  in  a 
description  which  she  gave  of  her  first  ball  at  the  White 
House. 

She  said  that,  although  it  was  a  cold  night,  and  there  was  a 
snowstorm  brewing,  she  wore  but  two  garments,  one  of  them 
a  long  linen  lace-trimmed  "  shift,"  and  the  other  a  white 
satin  dress  with  a  blonde  lace  berthe.  Her  hair  was  crowned 
by  a  wreath  of  silver  leaves,  and  my  mother  told  me  she  was 
the  most  radiant  of  visions  that  night,  and  the  belle  of  the 
ball. 

My  first  distinct  recollection  of  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  of 
her  visiting  my  mother  late  one  summer  evening  just  before 


52  I  MYSELF 

twilight.  She  was  dressed  in  a  dark,  magenta-coloured 
organdie,  flowered  in  white,  low  necked  with  long  sleeves,  and 
she  wore  a  small  fichu  of  the  same  muslin  trimmed  with  a 
little  white  silk  fringe.  In  her  white  silk  belt  was  a  bunch  of 
white  roses,  and  ever  since  then  I  have  loved  white  roses  the 
best  of  all  the  garden  of  flowers. 

Between  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  and  myself  was  the  same  love 
and  sympathy  that  had  existed  between  herself  and  my 
mother.  I  was  very  different  from  my  mother,  who  had  a 
determined  will  and  an  imperious  manner,  and  in  my  child- 
hood she  did  not  always  understand  me  nor  I  her.  I  know, 
now  that  I  have  arrived  at  years  of  maturity,  that  she  was  one 
of  the  noblest  and  most  generous  women  in  the  world,  but  as  a 
child  there  was  friction  between  us — but  never  for  a  moment 
between  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  and  me.  I  have  often  felt  a 
sort  of  mingling  of  my  spirit  with  hers,  so  close  was  the 
sympathy  between  us,  and  yet  we  were  absolutely  opposite 
to  each  other  on  many  points.  For  instance,  I  was  born 
indifferent  to  dress.  I  notice  pretty  clothes  on  other  people  ; 
I  appreciate  them,  and  like  to  see  them ;  but  my  own  clothes 
have  always  bored  me  to  extinction,  and  if  any  toilettes  of 
mine  have  been  successes  it  has  been  due  to  the  efforts  of 
either  kind  relations,  friends  or  dressmakers,  or  above  all, 
to  that  wonderful  sartorial  artist  in  Paris,  Leroux,  from  whom 
I  occasionally  get  a  gown.  I  find  if  you  put  yourself  entirely 
in  the  hands  of  people  who  understand  the  subject  of  dress, 
and  do  not  interfere  or  make  suggestions  to  them,  they  will  do 
their  very  best  for  you.  Aunt  Lizzie  really  loved  dress,  and 
with  her  beautiful  figure  did  full  justice  to  decoration ;  and  she 
earnestly  laboured  to  make  me  a  conscientious  dresser,  but 
never  succeeded.  I  was  always  eager  for  baths,  hot  and  cold, 
ready  to  wash  my  hair  three  times  a  week  if  need  be,  to  brush 
my  teeth  after  every  meal,  and  I  spent  a  large  portion  of 
my  pin  money  in  tooth-brushes,  mouth-washes,  soaps  and 
toilet  powders :  then  I  lost  interest — while  Aunt  Lizzie's 
theory  was  that  a  woman  under  any  and  all  circumstances 
should  be  well  dressed.  My  aunt  Florida  Howard  told  me 
that  when  Elizabeth  lived  at  "  The  Bend,"  her  husband's 


FOR  LOVE'S  DEAR  SAKE  53 

plantation  in  Kentucky,  on  the  bend  of  a  river,  the  nearest 
neighbour  was  nine  miles  distant,  and  the  visitors  were  few 
and  far  between,  and  yet  Elizabeth  was  always  as  spick  and 
span,  as  if  the  madding  crowd  surged  about  her.  Her  hair 
was  exquisitely  done,  she  was  well  corseted,  her  dimity  and 
muslin  gowns  were  fresh  and  fashionable,  and  her  feet 
faultlessly  shod  in  openwork  silk  stockings  and  little  kid 
slippers.  In  the  evening  she  changed  her  dress  to  fine  lace 
and  muslin  gowns,  low-necked,  with  little  capes.  She  always 
said  she  dressed  for  her  own  satisfaction,  whether  people  saw 
her  or  not,  and  occasionally  she  became  a  veritable  heroine 
as  an  exponent  of  her  theory.  All  her  life  she  had  suffered 
agonies  from  headaches,  so  severe  that  temporarily  they  made 
her  almost  blind.  But  these  headaches  never  conquered  her 
toilettes.  She  would  awake  in  the  morning  with  racking 
pain,  that  would  have  put  any  other  woman  to  bed,  but  she 
got  up,  took  a  bracing  cold  bath,  powdered  her  face,  put  a  dab 
of  rouge  on  each  cheek  and  on  her  chin,  pencilled  the  neat 
eyebrows,  dressed  her  hair  elaborately  in  puffs  and  curls, 
arranged  herself  in  a  perfectly  fitting  princess  morning-gown 
(she  did  not  own  such  a  thing  as  a  loose  and  comfortable 
wrapper),  then  sat  down  in  a  straight-backed  chair  to  rest. 
The  only  concession  she  ever  made  to  a  headache  was  a  thin 
cambric  pocket-handkerchief  folded  in  a  neat  little  square 
soaked  in  Eau  de  Cologne,  nestling  among  the  puffs  and  curls. 
She  was  always  ready  to  receive  visitors,  and  I  never  remem- 
ber her  in  deshabille. 

During  the  Civil  War,  when  any  delicacies  in  the  way  of 
food  were  almost  impossible  to  get  in  the  South,  Aunt  Lizzie 
went  to  San  Antonio,  where  some  boxes  of  raisins  and  barrels 
of  sugar  and  coffee  had  been  smuggled  in  through  Galveston. 
She  had  little  money  to  spend,  but  after  looking  a  long  time 
at  the  raisins,  and  smelling  the  coffee  and  sugar,  she  bought 
a  bunch  of  violets  to  freshen  up  a  straw  bonnet.  Isn't  it 
Elbert  Hubbard,  that  altogether  original,  courageous  and 
delightful  writer,  who  says  :  "  If  I  had  but  two  loaves  of 
bread,  I  would  sell  one  of  them  and  buy  white  hyacinths  to 
feed  my  soul  ?  "  The  pleasures  of  the  table  never  appealed 


54  I  MYSELF 

to  Aunt  Lizzie,  though  Melinda,  her  cook,  was  a  genuine 
cordon  bleu.  She  used  to  make  a  bread  that  I  have  never 
seen  equalled  ;  it  was  known  as  "  salt  rising  bread,"  and  is 
made  without  yeast.  It  would  have  been  possible  only  to  a 
darkie  cook  who  could  nod  over  the  fire  all  night  without 
feeling  any  great  fatigue  in  the  morning,  as  an  equal  tempera- 
ture was  necessary,  and  constant  watching,  in  order  to  have 
the  bread  rise  properly.  "  Salt  rising  bread  "  went  out 
with  slavery,  and  is  known  to  the  younger  generation  only 
in  name,  but  no  cake  I  have  ever  tasted  compared  to  it  in 
delicacy. 

Melinda's  wedding  was  a  quaint  affair.  She  was  going  to 
marry  a  man  called  Sam,  the  servant  of  a  neighbour,  and  she 
had  planned  a  white  muslin  bridal  gown,  a  veil  and  a  big 
wedding,  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  a  negro,  when  on  a  Monday 
morning,  while  she  was  at  the  wash-tub,  Sam  appeared,  and 
informed  her  that  as  soon  as  she  dried  the  soap-suds  from  her 
arms  she  was  to  be  married,  as  the  minister  was  coming  right 
along.  In  vain  she  expostulated  and  pleaded  for  delay  and 
bridal  attire  and  the  wedding  cake.  Sam  said  he  didn't  want 
"  no  tarnation  nonsense — dat  it  was  now  or  never  wid  him," 
so,  choking  with  sobs  and  tears  of  disappointment,  Melinda 
stood  at  the  side  of  her  wash-tub,  was  married  and  returned  to 
her  work.  And  Sam,  who  was  very  busy  with  the  season's 
crops,  only  appeared  a  day  or  two  later,  but  he  said  he  "  done 
had  it  off  his  mind  anyway. "  He  made  an  excellent  husband , , 
and  Melinda  gradually  recovered  from  her  regret  for  the  loss 
of  her  wedding. 

At  forty  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  still  a  fresh  beauty,  very 
popular,  and  much  admired.  Among  her  suitors  was  a  young 
man  who  remained  her  devoted  slave  for  twenty  years.  At 
intervals  during  this  time  he  proposed  to  her,  but  she  always 
refused  him,  preferring  the  freedom  of  widowhood,  and  finally 
he  married  the  very  opposite  of  my  aunt :  a  dull,  colourless, 
monotonous,  uninteresting  woman  in  mind  and  appearance. 
Very  often  he  strolled  around  to  have  a  talk  with  his  old  love, 
who  to  the  very  end  of  her  life  remained  witty  and  engaging. 
My  aunt's  speaking  voice  was  music  itself,  and  she  was  the 


FOR  LOVE'S  DEAR  SAKE  55 

embodiment  of  naturalness  without  a  vestige  of  either  vanity 
or  affectation.  Really  beautiful  women  are  always  freer 
from  vanity  than  those  of  lesser  pretensions  to  loveliness. 
Perfect  beauty  is  an  accomplished  fact  of  which  there  is  no 
doubt,  and  can  be  dismissed  from  the  mind  of  the  owner,  and 
frequently  is  ;  while  merely  pretty  women  are  oftentimes  in 
doubt  of  their  good  looks  and  need  the  constant  bolstering  up 
of  compliments  in  order  to  be  satisfied. 

When,  for  example,  I  first  saw  Mrs  Frances  Lowther  she 
possessed  a  really  noble  and  very  rare  beauty.  Her  head 
was  pure  Greek.  Her  forehead  low  and  broad,  her  features 
quite  regular,  her  mouth  finely  chiselled,  her  eyes  were  deep 
blue,  and  the  face  was  mobile  with  an  ever-changing  expres- 
sion. Watts  has  made  a  beautiful  "  Clytie  "  of  her,  Gustave 
Dore  painted  her,  Leighton  has  used  her  head  for  more  than 
one  of  his  pictures.  Prinsep,  Halle,  Tissot,  Boldini  and 
other  great  artists  asked  her  constantly  to  sit  to  them,  and 
she  had  no  personal  vanity  whatever,  and  hasn't  a  picture 
of  herself,  or  even  a  bronze  reproduction  of  "  Clytie  "  ;  and 
yet  she  must  have  known  with  all  the  admiration  she  excited 
that  she  was  beautiful,  but  apparently  she  had  forgotten  it 
and  dismissed  it  from  her  mind.  And  her  loveliness  has 
never  spoiled  her  frank  and  honest  nature,  nor  her  sense  of 
humour,  nor  her  wit,  nor  has  it  chilled  her  warm  heart. 

The  world  is  undoubtedly  getting  more  materialistic,  and 
the  once-honoured  ideals  of  self-sacrifice,  loyalty  and  devotion 
are  being  laid  aside.  Passion  and  the  indulgence  of  it  at 
any  cost,  scarlet  love,  the  realization  of  every  complicated 
and  subtle  emotion,  is  the  mode  and  preachment  of  the 
moment.  Many  a  modern  young  man  in  his  secret  soul 
admires  Oscar  Wilde  when  he  says  :  "I  remember  when  I 
was  at  Oxford  saying  to  one  of  my  friends  as  we  were  strolling 
round  Magdalen's  narrow,  bird-haunted  walks  one  morning 
in  the  year  before  I  took  my  degree,  that  I  wanted  to  eat 
of  the  fruit  of  all  the  trees  in  the  garden  of  the  world,  and 
that  I  was  going  out  into  the  world  with  that  passion  in  my 
soul.  And  so  indeed  I  went  out  and  so  I  lived."  We  all 
know  the  result  of  the  experiment :  first  the  court  of  justice 


56  I  MYSELF 

then  the  prison  gate,  and  afterwards  the  prison — and  even  if 
he  had  not  landed  there,  his  soul  would  have  been  seared, 
and  scarred,  and  stricken,  by  "  the  fruit  of  all  the  trees." 
He  learned  later,  poor,  tragic,  gifted  singer,  that  life  is  sweet 
only  to  those  who  themselves  are  sweet  and  tender  to 
humanity,  and  this  is  accomplished  by  self-control,  self- 
denial  and  self-sacrifice.  The  delight  in  children,  and 
flowers,  and  the  country,  domestic  love,  and  romantic 
friendship,  are  fast  becoming,  like  faded  ribbons  and  old- 
fashioned  ballads,  things  of  the  past.  Sir  Arthur  Pinero's 
touching  play  The  Thunderbolt  failed  because  the  love 
interest  in  it  was  only  the  deep,  sweet  affection  and  the  self- 
sacrifice  of  husband  and  wife.  The  critics  voted  it  dry. 
Would  they  have  understood  my  friend  Sidney  Lanier's 
poem  ? 

WEDDING   HYMN 

Thou  God,  whose  high,  eternal  Love 

Is  the  only  blue  sky  of  our  life, 
Clear  all  the  Heaven  that  bends  above 

The  life-road  of  this  man  and  wife. 

if  ay  these  two  lives  be  but  one  note 
In  the  world's  strange-sounding  harmony, 

Whose  sacred  music  e'er  shall  float 
Through  every  discord  up  to  Thee. 

As  when  from  separate  stars  two  beams 

Unite  to  form  one  tender  ray  : 
As  when  two  sweet  but  shadowy  dreams 

Explain  each  other  in  the  day  : 

So  may  these  two  dear  hearts  one  light 

Emit,  and  each  interpret  each. 
Let  an  angel  come  and  dwell  to-night 

In  this  dear  double-heart,  and  teach  ! 

Since  my  earliest  youth  one  of  the  most  touching  love 
letters  in  all  the  world  to  me  is  the  one  written  by  Comtesse  de 
Florae  to  Colonel  Newcome  when  they  were  both  old  people — 


FOR  LOVE'S  DEAR  SAKE  57 

he  married  and  the  father  of  Give,  she  the  mother  of  children 
and  the  wife  of  a  very  old  husband.  But  she  had  loved  her 
first  lover  all  the  years  of  her  life,  with  a  patient,  pathetic, 
unforgetting  loyal  love.  In  her  letter  she  says  : 

"  Sometimes,  I  have  heard  of  your  career  ...  he  informed 
me  how  yet  a  young  man  you  won  laurels  at  Argom  and 
Bhartpour,  how  you  escaped  death  as  Laswari.  I  have 
followed  them,  sir,  on  the  map.  I  have  taken  part  in  your 
victories  and  your  glory.  Ah  !  I  am  not  so  cold  but  my  heart 
has  trembled  for  your  dangers,  not  so  aged,  but  I  remember 
the  young  man  who  learned  from  the  pupil  of  Frederic  the 
first  rudiments  of  war.  Your  great  heart,  your  love  of  truth, 
your  courage,  were  your  own.  None  had  to  teach  you  these 
qualities,  of  which  a  good  God  had  endowed  you.  ...  I  hold 
you  always  in  memory.  As  I  write  the  past  comes  back  to 
me.  I  see  a  noble  young  man  who  has  a  soft  voice  and 
brown  eyes.  I  see  the  Thames  and  the  smiling  plains  of 
Blackheath.  I  listen  and  pray  at  my  chamber  door,  as  my 
father  talks  to  you  in  our  little  cabinet  of  studies.  I  look 
from  the  window  and  see  you  depart. ...  I  remember  this  was 
your  birthday.  I  have  made  myself  a  little  fete  in  celebrat- 
ing it  after  how  many  years  of  absence,  of  silence.  .  .  . 

"  COMTESSE   DE   FLORAC 

(Nee  '  L.  DE  BLOIS  ')  " 

This  letter  is  as  if  written  with  a  pen  of  sweet  dried 
lavender.  It  is  from  a  loyal  wife  to  the  man  she  has  always 
loved,  and  yet  what  unforgetfulness,  sweetness,  tenderness,  it 
contains  !  It  is  further  endeared  to  me  by  the  memory  of  a 
long  walk,  and  a  long  talk  with  Justin  McCarthy  at  Westgate- 
on-Sea  one  sunshiny,  golden  October  afternoon.  In  the 
discussion  of  various  things,  and  various  people,  Thackeray 
came  along,  and  I  mentioned  the  Newcomes  and  Madame  de 
Florae's  letter,  and  Justin  then  and  there  quoted  it  almost  in 
entirety  (he  is  gifted  with  the  most  wonderful  memory). 
His  rich  voice  was  very  sweet  in  the  lines  :  "  I  see  the  Thames 
and  the  smiling  plains  of  Blackheath.  I  listen  and  pray  at 


58  I  MYSELF 

my  chamber  door,  as  my  father  talks  to  you  in  our  little 
cabinet  of  studies.  I  look  from  the  window  and  see  you 
depart." 

Dear  Justin  !  Dear  Thackeray  !  It  is  for  these  recollec- 
tions that  I  once  made  a  journey  to  Blackheath. 

And  the  gentleman  who  loved  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  for 
twenty  years  and  remained  her  true  friend  to  the  end — he  and 
all  people  who  are  simple,  and  straightforward,  and  loyal — are 
dear  to  my  primordial  heart.  Thackeray  himself  was  one  of 
the  faithful,  long-suffering,  platonic  and  self-sacrificing  lovers .. 
After  his  separation  from  his  wife,  caused  by  her  long  mental 
illness,  he  formed  a  great  friendship  with  Mrs  Brookfield, 
who  was  the  wife  of  one  of  his  oldest  friends — and  the  close 
intimacy  resulted  in  his  falling  in  love  with  her.  But  the 
thought  of  disloyalty  never  entered  Thackeray's  mind.  The 
world,  however,  was  ill-natured  over  the  friendship.  Brook- 
field  became  cool  to  him,  and  finally  Thackeray  wrote  him  a 
noble  letter  of  explanation  in  which  he  was  reputed  to  have 
said  he  did  love  Mrs  Brookfield  deeply,  but  neither  Brookfield, 
nor  his  wife,  nor  he  himself,  need  be  ashamed  of  his  love,  which 
was  composed  of  tenderness  and  devotion,  but  above  all  of 
respect.  Brookfield  was  a  generous  man  himself — he  under- 
stood, and  after  the  letter  the  three  friends  remained  intimate 
and  united  until  the  day  of  Thackeray's  death. 

There  is  something  infinitely  restful  and  uplifting  in  a  love 
shorn  of  passion,  but  still  faithful.  This  has  often  happened 
through  Fate's  contrary  mandate,  but  only  the  noble  ones  of 
the  earth  can  abide  by  it. 


A   SERIOUS   CHILD   OF   TWELVE 


"  Mankind  is  ignorant,  a  man  am  I, 
Call  ignorance  my  sorrow,  not  my  sin." 

BROWNING 

AFTER  living  with  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  a  short  time 
my  father  decided  to  take  me  with  him  to  the  North 
and  leave  me  at  a  boarding  school.  How  inade- 
quate education  was  at  this  period,  particularly  for  girls ! 
At  Georgetown  Convent,  which  was  such  a  beautiful  old  place, 
not  unlike  a  fourteenth-century  Italian  villa,  with  the 
Potamac  running  through  its  grounds,  lovely  meadows  and 
orchards,  and  the  best  bread  and  butter  I  have  ever  eaten,  I 
learned  to  dance,  and  to  embroider,  a  little  music,  and  some- 
thing of  manners — at  the  other  schools  nothing  at  all.  Ladies 
of  the  Visitation  (black-veiled  nuns)  conducted  the  convent. 
They  were  mostly  women  of  good  Southern  family,  and  dis- 
tinction, who  had  chosen  to  give  up  the  world  for  a  cloistered 
life,  and  at  one  period  of  the  school  the  President  of  the 
United  States  gave  the  medal  to  each  graduate,  and  placed  a 
wreath  on  her  virgin  brow.  It  was  soon  enough  after  the 
war  for  one  of  the  rules  read  aloud  by  the  mother  superior  to 
be,  "  The  discussion  of  politics  and  religion  is  strictly  for- 
bidden." I  was  much  too  young  to  care  for  either,  but  in 
spite  of  this  rule  occasional  angry  discussions  ensued  between 
girls  from  the  North  and  girls  from  the  South,  and  between 
Catholics  and  Protestants. 

It  was  an  excellent  school  for  the  morals  of  any  girl. 
Without  realizing  it,  the  surveillance  was  constant.     There 

59 


60  I  MYSELF 

was  a  sister  everywhere  in  the  dormitories,  in  the  class-rooms, 
in  the  recreation-rooms,  in  the  playgrounds,  and  a  tite-d-tete 
between  girls  was  practically  impossible.  Secrets  were  dis- 
couraged, and  frankness  and  truth  were  at  a  premium. 
The  hour  for  getting  up  was  unearthly — five  o'clock — and 
each  girl,  as  she  left  the  dormitory,  was  obliged  to  have  her 
teeth  and  finger  nails  inspected  by  a  keen-eyed  sister  at  the 
door.  Many  girls  went  back  to  use  tooth  brush  and  nail 
brush  more  vigorously,  but,  small  as  I  was,  my  teeth  and 
nails  were  invariably  satisfactory.  Scrubbing  anything  has 
always  been  an  agreeable  occupation  to  me,  particularly  my 
teeth — the  consequence  is  that  I  have  never  had  a  toothache 
in  my  life,  or  lost  a  tooth.  Another  thing  I  owe  to  the 
convent  is  a  love  of  cold  water.  Our  most  luxurious  baths 
for  invalids  and  delicate  girls  had  "  the  chill  off  "  only,  and  a 
nun's  "  chill  off  "  leaves  the  water  still  quite  cold.  I  used  to 
love  my  icy  baths,  freshly  drawn  from  the  chilled  river,  in- 
ducing the  warm  glow  that  followed  afterward — and  only 
rheumatism  has  ever  driven  me  to  the  leisurely  laziness  of 
warm  baths. 

There  was  a  Madonna-faced  nun  at  the  convent  whom  I 
adored.  I  can  see  her  now.  What  blue,  blue  eyes  she  had, 
with  long,  perfectly  straight  eyelashes  which  gave  her  eyes  a 
continually  pensive  expression.  Her  face  was  a  pure  oval, 
with  a  transparent  skin,  a  fine  aquiline  nose,  and  a  drooping 
mouth.  She  was  a  teacher  of  music,  which  in  truth  she  knew 
only  superficially,  but  I  learned  "  The  Maiden's  Prayer  " 
under  her  guidance,  and  Thalberg's  "  Home,  sweet  Home  " 
with  variations,  and  I  loved  her  reverently  and  tried  to 
imitate  her  voice  and  manner.  It  was  said  she  had  been 
engaged  to  a  young  Confederate  officer  on  General  Robert 
E.  Lee's  staff,  and  that  after  he  was  killed  in  battle  she 
entered  the  convent.  We  parted  with  many  tears  and  em- 
braces. She  was  to  say  always  a  little  daily  prayer  for  me, 
and  I  was  never  to  forget  her.  I  have  kept  my  promise,  and 
she  was  too  unselfish  ever  to  forget  hers. 

The  old  wardrobe  sister  was  a  beautiful  needlewoman  from 
Ireland.  She  made  yards  of  Irish  crochet  lace,  but  nobody 


MY  REGRET  AT  MY  LACK  OF  EDUCATION   61 

wanted  it  in  those  days.  She  used  to  scold  me  for  being  slow 
with  my  mending,  but  I  got  good  marks  for  neatness,  and  she 
used  to  say  that  "  dirt  never  stuck  to  Betty."  Even  as  a 
child  I  disliked  dirt,  except  mud  pies,  and  they  are  a  different 
sort  from  spots,  and  stains,  and  London  fogs,  which  are  quite 
the  worst  of  all. 

My  next  school  after  the  convent  was  at  White  Plains, 
New  York.  It  was  kept  by  the  sweetest,  gentlest,  most 
worried  creature  I  ever  saw,  and  her  sister,  who  gave  me  a 
Bible  that  I  use  still.  The  girls  all  thought  Mrs  Stirling  a 
widow,  but  I  heard  later  she  had  a  bad  husband  who  had  dis- 
appeared into  the  West. 

Except  for  the  cold,  which  was  detestable — frost  and  snow 
have  a  •  perfectly  paralysing  effect  on  me — I  was  quite 
happy  learning  my  lessons  as  they  were  given  to  me,  but  I 
left  school  really  profoundly  ignorant,  and  all  my  life  I  have 
suffered  and  regretted  my  want  of  education.  It  is  not  what 
one  knows  that  apparently  matters  so  much — the  topics 
discussed  in  social  life  are  not  very  abstruse.  Magazines, 
and  newspapers,  and  an  amiable  manner,  go  a  great  way 
toward  agreeable  conversation  of  the  everyday  sort.  It  is  the 
drudgery  of  study  that  is  so  steadying  for  the  mind — the 
power  of  application  and  concentration  of  a  real  education 
that  uplifts,  and  bears  you  beyond  the  pettinesses  of  un- 
educated people — that  is  of  such  inestimable  value.  I  wish 
that  even  at  three  years  of  age  my  father  had  made  me  begin, 
like  John  Stuart  Mill,  the  study  of  Greek.  I  did  learn  a  little 
Latin,  and  liked  it,  but  only  the  very  beginning  of  Algebra, 
which  I  have  forgotten,  and  never  Geometry — and  I  had  a 
mind  that  wanted  something  more  than  just  the  ordinary 
gossip  of  society,  which  bored  me,  even  at  a  very  early  age,  to 
extinction.  The  only  true  kingdom  on  earth  is  the  kingdom 
of  a  well-stored  mind,  that  nobody  can  wrest  away  from, 
you.  Parliaments  can  rob  a  monarch  of  his  crown  and  his 
possessions,  but  a  king  in  exile  can  take  his  store  of  knowledge 
and  his  well-disciplined  mind  with  him.  And  I  do  most 
bitterly  regret  my  want  of  education,  and  always  have  and- 
always  will,  and,  among  my  life's  many  failures  and  wants,. 


6*  I  MYSELF 

this  want  and  failure  of  an  education  I  consider  the  greatest 
of  all. 


After  the  years  spent  at  the  convent  and  at  boarding  school 
we  went  back  to  Texas.  It  was  a  great  joy  to  see  my  old 
home  again.  The  very  root  of  my  heart  is  in  the  South — 
everything  in  it  appeals  to,  soothes  and  comforts  me.  The 
hot  sun,  the  rich  vegetation,  the  blossoming  trees  of  oleander, 
magnolia  and  crepe  myrtle,  the  penetrating  scent  of  the 
jasmine,  the  night-blooming  cereus,  and  the  honeysuckle, 
the  silver  nights  when  the  moon  makes  luminous  the  deepest 
shadow,  the  soft,  full-throated  trills  of  the  mocking  bird,  the 
caressingness  of  the  air,  the  grateful  freshness  of  early  morn- 
ing, the  little  shiny  darkies,  the  corn  bread,  and  rice,  and  rich 
water-melons,  and  fragrant  coffee  and  velvety  peaches — all 
these  delightful  things  are  mine  by  birth  and  inheritance, 
for,  like  me,  they  all  belong  "  to  the  land  of  cotton,  cinnamon 
seed,  and  sandy  bottom  away  down  South  in  Dixie." 

We  settled  down  in  our  old  home,  and  Mammy,  who  had 
such  a  pretty  name — Hester — superintended  the  house- 
keeping, and  a  mocking  bird  came  every  night  at  nine  o'clock, 
perched  on  the  bough  of  a  tree  by  the  portico,  and  told  us  in  a 
gush  of  melody  what  time  it  was.  It  is  a  curious  thing,  this 
habit  of  that  particular  bird,  to  sing  at  precisely  the  same 
hour  for  weeks  at  a  time. 

I  began  going  to  a  day  school  and  taking  music  lessons 
from  one  of  the  playmates  of  my  childhood — Willie  Boaz, 
who  had  been  to  Germany  and  studied  music  there.  I  thought 
to  impress  him  by  "  The  Maiden's  Prayer  "  and  the  variations 
of  Thalberg's  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  but  not  a  bit  of  it.  He 
put  me  on  five-finger  exercises,  and  the  small  amount  of 
music  I  know  (which  used  to  be  one  of  the  worst-taught 
things  in  the  world)  I  learned  from  him.  Although  I  was 
still  going  to  school  my  hair  was  up,  and  I  began  to  take 
notice  of  the  various  playmates  of  my  childhood  who  were 
now  well-grown  youths,  and  the  youngest  lieutenants  of  the 
military  post  were  also  numbered  among  my  friends.  It  was 


MY  REGRET  AT  MY  LACK  OF  EDUCATION  63 

the  fashion  in  those  days  to  serenade  the  lady  of  your  choice, 
and  this  occurred  to  me  so  often  that  my  father  threatened 
to  move  further  into  the  country.  Guitars,  banjos,  flutes, 
and  tenor  voices  were  disturbing  his  middle-aged  slumbers, 
but  the  serenaders  did  not  end  there.  When  a  lieutenant 
serenaded  he  brought  the  entire  brass  band  of  his  regiment, 
and  that  meant  a  box  of  candles  in  order  to  see  the  music. 
The  performers  were  grouped  around  the  porch,  and  after- 
ward wine  was  offered,  and  this  all  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  Their  arrival  was  announced  by  a  strident  "  blam- 
blam !  "  and  a  deep  groan  followed  from  my  father's  room, 
which  was  next  to  mine.  I  arose,  all  joy  and  light,  and 
hastily  dressed,  and  he  arose,  all  gloom  and  weariness,  and 
slowly  dressed.  He  did  not  care  at  all  for  music,  and  certainly 
not  at  one  or  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It  irritated  him 
beyond  measure,  and  I  was  not  serenaded  less  than  three 
times  a  week.  My  father  was  too  sweet  tempered  ever  to  be 
really  disagreeable,  but  the  day  after  the  serenade  he  was 
greatly  depressed,  while  I  bubbled  over  with  satisfaction. 

I  remember  once  he  was  defending  a  murder  case — a  woman 
had  killed  her  husband  in  a  rather  cold-blooded  fashion, 
and  the  trial  was  to  end  the  next  day.  He  said  when  we 
went  to  bed,  "  I  do  trust,  my  dear  daughter,  there  will  be  no 
caterwauling  to-night."  But  that  night  of  all  nights  we 
had  three  serenades — first  a  flute,  then  a  baritone  with  his 
guitar  (we  hadn't  to  get  up  for  him),  and  no  sooner  had  he 
departed,  and  silence  reigned  again,  than  blam-blam  !  and 
the  entire  band  of  the  6th  Cavalry  had  arrived.  My  father 
never  swore,  but  I  fear  he  did  that  night,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing, before  going  to  court,  he  said  to  me,  "  Mind,  if  that  un- 
fortunate woman  is  hanged  it  will  be  the  fault  of  you  and  your 
infernal  serenaders.  I  am  worn  out  this  morning  !  "  But  his 
logic  and  eloquence  prevailed,  and  the  woman  got  her 
freedom. 

He  never  lost  but  one  murder  case.  A  negro  in  Washington 
cut  off  his  wife's  head  with  a  cleaver  while  she  slept,  and  my 
father  defended  him,  but  the  negro  was  hanged.  This  broke 
my  father's  record,  and  he  felt  dreadfully  about  it.  His 


64  I  MYSELF 

speech  in  defence  of  the  man  was  so  fine  that  the  papers  said 
he  was  an  old  slave  of  Judge  Paschal's  with  a  claim  upon 
him  of  long  service — but  this  was  not  true.  Every  client 
of  my  father  made  a  claim  upon  him  to  do  his  best,  and  he 
did  it.  He  was  a  born  lawyer,  with  an  actual  knowledge  of 
the  law,  to  which  he  added  thorough  conscientious  work,  and 
when  occasion  demanded  he  was  passionately  eloquent — and 
above  all  he  never  wavered,  and  was  as  true  to  the  interests 
of  his  clients  as  they  were  themselves. 

Business  called  my  father  north,  and  there  he  met  and 
married  my  stepmother — a  handsome  woman  of  many 
accomplishments,  and  as  she  preferred  living  in  Washington, 
that  delightful  capital  became  our  home.  My  father's 
marriage  was  very  happy.  He  was  exceedingly  proud  of  his 
wife,  she  was  devoted  to  his  interests  and  was  of  the  greatest 
help  to  him  in  his  work,  "  The  Digest  of  the  Laws  of  Texas," 
and  his  "  Annotated  Constitution  of  the  United  States."  He 
taught  her  how  to  make  an  index,  and  she  was  remarkably 
quick  at  the  work.  She  was  a  most  accomplished  pianist, 
reading  music  at  sight  as  other  people  read  books,  and, 
although  my  father  never  cared  for  music,  he  used  to  love  to 
hear  her  play.  She  had  faultless  taste  in  the  arrangement  of 
a  house,  and  she  was  a  genius  in  dress.  This  delighted  me, 
as  I  put  myself  completely  in  her  hands,  and  wore  with 
pleasure  and  without  argument,  the  clothes  she  chose  for  me. 


CHAPTER     XIII 

THE  UGLY  DUCKLING 

"  Oh,  the  wild  joy  of  living,  the  leaping  from  rock  to  rock, 
The  strong  bending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water." 

BROWNING 

MY  father  was  married  in  the  spring,  and  I  went  for 
the  summer  to  Elkton,  Maryland,  to  visit  Mrs 
Young,  a  lady  for  whom  I  always  had  a  devoted 
friendship,  and  although  she  was  sixty  and  I  sixteen  we 
were  perfectly  congenial.  For  one  thing  she  was  beautiful, 
and  I  adore  beauty.  Her  eyes  were  large,  soft  and  brown, 
and  her  hair,  snow  white,  was  worn  in  soft  puffs  on  either  side 
of  her  face,  and  she  was  exquisitely,  daintily  neat  and 
clean.  Her  housekeeping  was  of  the  sort  that  has  gone  out 
of  fashion — the  old-fashioned  Southern  housekeeping.  The 
cooking  was  renowned  throughout  the  county,  and  the  boy  in 
the  kitchen  who  cleaned  the  pots  and  pans  was  required  to 
leave  them  in  such  a  state  of  perfection  that  a  cambric  pocket- 
handkerchief  could  be  passed  around  the  inside  of  one  and 
returned  to  the  owner  unsoiled.  And,  what  is  more,  I  have 
seen  it  done  many  a  time.  The  piece  de  resistance  of  the 
house  was  peach  ice-cream.  The  ripe  peaches  were  mashed 
and  put  in  pure  sweetened  cream,  flavoured  by  Mrs  Young, 
and  Charley  the  pot-boy  was  set  to  work  to  freeze  it,  and  in  the 
evening  at  eight  or  nine  o'clock  the  neighbours  came  in  to 
partake  of  this  celebrated  dish.  Many  notable  housekeepers 
tried,  but  no  one  ever  succeeded  in  attaining  the  perfection  of 
Mrs  Young's  icecream.  The  Misses  Partridge,  two  aristo- 
cratic maiden  ladies,  refined,  exclusive  and  poor,  made 
5 


66  I  MYSELF 

wonderful  small  cakes,  really  the  most  marvellous  cakes  I 
have  ever  eaten,  superior  even  to  those  made  in  Austria, 
the  land  of  cakes — and  occasionally  they  sent  Mrs  Young 
a  panful  of  these  envied  delicacies,  but  the  secret  of  just 
how  to  make  them  they  would  never  divulge.  They  said 
they  would  leave  the  receipt  to  the  little  town  of  Elkton 
when  they  died.  I  wonder  if  they  did  ! 

I  returned  to  Washington  in  the  autumn,  and  that  winter 
was  to  be  my  debut  as  a  young  lady.  My  first  appearance 
was  made  at  an  army  and  navy  German  (a  cotillon).  My 
partner,  a  Mr  Mark  Severance  from  Boston,  was  singularly 
handsome,  but  not  a  good  dancer.  I  would  have  preferred 
him  plain  and  light  of  foot,  for  I  adored  dancing.  Mother 
dressed  me  in  white,  with  scarlet  geraniums  in  my  hair  and  on 
my  dress,  and  she  and  I  and  Dan  Gillette,  a  friend  who  did 
not  dance,  met  Mr  Severance  at  nine  o'clock. 

People  danced  in  those  days,  and  the  German  began  early. 
I  was  feeling  anxious  about  my  success.  After  all,  I  was  very 
young,  and  a  perfect  stranger  in  Washington.  There  were 
other  girls,  older,  more  experienced,  prettier,  better  dressed  ; 
maybe  I  would  have  no  partners,  or  very  few.  Mr  Sever- 
ance was  agreeable,  but  I  was  not  at  a  cotillon  to  sit  still. 
Presently  Captain  Mason,  the  smart  young  naval  officer  who 
was  leading  the  German,  clapped  his  hands  for  the  first  figure. 
We  were  all  expectancy.  My  heart  was  beating  like  a  trip 
hammer.  He  looked  around  the  pretty  circle,  and  probably 
the  eagerness  of  my  face  attracted  him.  Anyhow  I  was  the 
girl  he  selected  for  the  first  figure,  and  after  that  I  was  never 
off  the  floor.  My  feet  ached  at  two  o'clock,  but  still  I  danced 
on,  covered  with  favours  from  head  to  foot,  iridescent  in 
tarlatan  scarfs  of  various  colours,  laden  with  bouquets,  but 
blissful  and  tireless. 

That  was  the  happiest  night  of  my  life,  because  my  success 
was  quite  unexpected.  The  next  day,  by  some  freak  of 
fortune  and  caprice  of  journalism,  the  Washington  papers 
announced  that  I  was  to  be  the  belle  of  the  season,  that  "  since 
Miss  Harriet  Lane's  reign  at  the  White  House  the  belleship 
of  Washington  has  been  divided  among  numberless  pretty 


THE  UGLY  DUCKLING  67 

girls,  but  this  year  the  honour,  an  undivided  one,  is  to  be 
given  to  a  new  debutante,  Miss  Betty  Paschal."     Of  course, 
this  was  grossly  inaccurate  and  mere  newspaper  exaggera- 
tion.    Nevertheless,  life  began  to  take  on  very  rosy  hues, 
and  I  had  a  wonderful  sense  of  the  "  wild  joy  of  living."     It 
was  almost  the  story  of  the  Ugly  Duckling  over  again.     It 
had  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  the  least  claim  to  good 
looks,  and  being  an  absent-minded,  unanalytical  creature,  with 
more  than  my  share  of  humility,  I  had  not  considered  myself 
at  all  in  those  days  except  to  be  very  grateful  and  apprecia- 
tive of  the  affection  which  was  given  me.    And  suddenly  to 
burst  upon  the  world  as  a  pretty  girl  was  a  wonderful  and 
unbelievable  surprise.     As  a  matter  of  fact,  my  claim  to  good 
looks  was  of  the  slightest ;  it  was  only  freshness  and  vivacity 
— no  one  knew  that  better  than  myself — and  whenever  people 
flattered  me  it  gave  me  the  sensation  of  having  warped  their 
real  taste  and  judgment.     My  own  ideal  of  beauty  is  so  high, 
and  so  instinctive,  that  my  eye  detects  at  once  every  fault 
in  all  physical  or  mechanical   misconstruction.       I  adore 
beauty  in  life  or  art.     A  beautiful  man,  woman,  child,  flower, 
star,  sea,  mountain,  sunset  or  sunrise,  a  picture,  or  mosaic,  or 
enamel,  or  tapestry,  or  statue,  or  carving,  or  gem — all  these 
things  have  given  me  indescribable  pleasure,  and  I  knew  that 
my  face  was  much  too  irregular  for  beauty.     There  is  so 
much  that  is  lovely  in  the  world  to  look  at  if  one  has  eyes  to 
see :  it  has  been  my  pageant.      Thank  heaven  always  for 
that  inestimable  boon,  sight.     Of   all  my  senses  my  eyes 
have  given  me  the  keenest  pleasure — the  beautiful  things 
they  have   visually   photographed,   priceless,   unattainable 
pictures  all  over  Europe,  and  statues  and  lovely  people  and 
beautiful  faces  are  by  every  detail  of  an  accurate  remem- 
brance mine.    Among  the  pictures  one  I  particularly  love  is 
in  Munich,  by  Bocklin.    A  midsummer  azure  sky  of  a  trans- 
parent sapphire  blue,  with  a  full,  warm,  lazy  sea  breaking  into 
frothy  white  waves,  and  floating  up  with  and  upon  the  curling 
water,  and  so  much  a  part  of  it  that  at  first  they  are  un- 
noticeable,  strange,  glad,  half-human,  but  wholly  possible 
sea-creatures. 


68  I  MYSELF 

My  first  winter  in  Washington,  a  lost  vision  now,  was 
almost  too  good  to  be  true. 

"  And  the  spray  from  the  fountain  of  youth  that  clings 
In  May's  first  dew  to  her  whispering  wings, 
These  are  the  gifts  that  our  lady  brings 

To  the  land  where  the  dreams  come  true." 

"  The  spray  from  the  fountain  of  youth  that  clings  in  May's 
first  dew  "  was  surely  my  right  at  sixteen — and  besides  that,  a 
rare  happiness  was  mine  :  an  absolutely  perfect,  unconscious 
innocence.  A  complete  want  of  curiosity,  and  an  intense 
interest  in  the  moment,  had  kept  my  mind  from  inquiring 
into  material  things,  and  so  far  as  the  complications  of  life 
and  evil  were  concerned  I  was  a  child — a  radiant,  believing, 
vivacious,  completely  happy,  healthy-minded,  confident, 
dancing  child.  In  those  far-off,  more  friendly  days  in 
Washington,  dancing  was  the  principal  amusement,  and 
indeed  the  constant  amusement  for  the  young.  There  was 
either  a  ball  or  a  dance  every  night,  and  at  the  large  houses 
a  matinee  every  afternoon,  where  you  threw  off  your  wraps 
and  danced  in  your  hat  from  three  until  six ;  and  at  Anna- 
polis what  were  called  morning  Germans  were  very  usual.  So 
I  danced  in  the  morning,  I  danced  in  the  afternoon  and  I 
danced  in  the  evening. 

At  first  mother,  who  was  so  interested  and  busy  in  pro- 
viding me  with  pretty  (but  simple)  clothes,  gave  me  tulle 
dresses  and  silk  shoes,  but  these  were  soon  danced  to  ribbons. 
Then  I  wore  silk  muslins  and  kid  shoes.  I  remember  for  the 
Annapolis  ball  three  young  officers  had  asked  me  as  a  partner 
for  the  German,  and  I  said  yes  to  all  of  them — so,  armed 
with  bouquets,  they  all  accompanied  me,  and  with  mother 
and  my  father  we  went  to  Annapolis.  In  those  days  it 
was  the  custom  to  carry  all  your  bouquets,  or,  anyhow,  all  you 
could  manage.  There  was  the  fourth  bouquet  waiting  at  the 
hotel  for  me,  so  with  my  arms  full  of  flowers,  and  my  three 
partners,  I  entered  the  ball-room  and  began  the  German. 
My  poor  father  (for  mother  it  was  not  so  bad,  as  she  was  still 


THE  UGLY  DUCKLING  69 

young  and  attractive,  and  danced  herself)  had  to  sit  from  nine 
o'clock  until  five  in  the  morning,  and,  almost  unbelievable 
now,  another  German  was  organized  at  ten  o'clock  the  next 
morning  at  the  hotel,  and  reinforced  with  bouillon  and  biscuits 
we  danced  steadily  until  two  o'clock.  In  the  afternoon  we 
returned  to  Washington,  and  that  night  there  was  another 
ball,  where  I  really  went  to  sleep  between  the  dances,  but 
danced  all  night  nevertheless.  I  was  absolutely  tireless,  and 
could  dance  longer  than  anybody  except  one  of  the  most 
enduring  and  best  dancers  we  had — Dick  Evans,  a  tall,  good- 
looking,  athletic  man,  who  was  always  in  urgent  demand  for 
every  occasion.  We  must  have  danced  some  thousands  of 
miles  together  that  winter,  but  we  never  danced  into  each 
other's  affections,  though  the  families  were  old  friends  and 
were,  like  ourselves,  Texas  people,  and  Dick  was  a  favourite  of 
my  father's.  Mrs  Stevenson,  then  Tilly  Evans,  was  one  of  the 
sisters — she  is  now  a  distinguished  scientific  woman,  great  in 
Indian  lore,  customs  and  languages.  I  do  not  remember 
her  in  the  old  days  as  a  dancer,  but  she  was  always  a  charm- 
ing, interesting  girl.  Betty  Evans,  now  Mrs  Kellogg,  another 
sister  of  Dick's  and  of  fighting  Bob's — Admiral  Evans — was  a 
perfect  fairy  on  her  feet,  which  were  celebrated  for  their 
minute  size. 

After  the  Annapolis  ball,  one  of  the  cabinet  ladies  gave  a 
calico  ball,  the  rule  being  that  any  costume  was  permissible 
if  made  of  cotton  material  only.  Mother,  who  was  a  queen  of 
taste,  sent  me  forth  like  a  figure  on  a  fan.  A  pale  blue 
cambric  petticoat,  a  Watteau  overdress,  much  puffed  on  the 
hips,  with  a  sharply  pointed  square-necked  bodice,  elbow 
sleeves  and  lace  ruffles.  The  design  of  the  sateen  was  a 
repetition  of  groups  of  shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  sur- 
rounded by  wreaths  of  roses.  My  shoes  were  black,  with  big 
paste  buckles,  and  the  black  velvet  on  my  neck  and  around 
my  wrists  was  fastened  with  antique  paste  clasps.  With 
extreme  youth,  a  brilliant  colour,  black  eyebrows,  and  the 
freckles  discreetly  dimmed  with  powder,  I  looked  my  best 
that  night,  and  Mr  Corcoran,  who  said  he  had  not  danced  for 
five  and  twenty  years,  gaily  stepped  through  a  quadrille 


70  I  MYSELF 

with  me.  He  was  a  very  handsome,  sympathetic  old  gentle- 
man, and  his  snow-white  hair,  flashing  black  eyes  and 
regular  features  gave  him  a  most  distinguished  appearance. 

With  dancing  and  flowers,  flowers  in  abundance,  baskets 
and  bouquets — sometimes  a  pyramid  four  feet  high — and 
laughter,  and  joy,  the  winter  wore  away.  At  the  close  of  the 
season  an  event  happened  that  decided  my  future.  Mrs 
Sheppard  gave  a  fancy  ball.  Her  husband,  Governor 
Sheppard,  was  the  Governor  of  the  District  of  Columbia,  and 
was  making  and  planning  Washington  into  the  beautiful 
city  it  is  now.  The  Sheppards  had  a  splendid  house,  and  she 
was  an  ideal  hostess  ;  very  handsome  and  graceful  and 
gracious — people  flocked  to  her  house,  and  on  this  occasion 
even  the  men  did  her  bidding  and  all  wore  fancy  dress. 
There  were  Shakespeares  and  Napoleons  and  Raphaels  and 
Walter  Raleighs  and  George  Washingtons  and  Mexicans 
and  troubadours.  My  escort  was  the  sweetest  possible 
Mephistopheles.  Mother,  who  was  dark,  looked  charming  as 
a  Spanish  lady,  all  black  lace  and  gold  bobs,  and  a  high  gold 
comb.  The  hostess  was  a  Venetian  lady,  in  a  long-trained 
gown  of  mauve  and  pink  and  gold,  with  flowing  sleeves  and 
ropes  of  pearls.  My  costume  represented,  of  all  things,  the 
moon  ;  feeling  as  I  did  at  the  time,  the  wonder  is  that  it  did 
not  represent  the  whole  solar  system. 

But  even  at  that  particular  moment  Fate  with  a  birch  rod 
was  waiting  to  administer  severe  correction  and  make  me  pay 
for  all  my  triumphs.  But  for  that  night  I  shone  resplendent. 
My  dress  was  of  amethyst-blue  satin  strewn  with  stars  ;  it 
was  looped  up  at  one  side  by  a  round,  pink-cheeked,  silvered 
full  moon.  The  bodice  was  brilliant  with  stars,  and  a  silvered 
crescent  slanted  down  one  side  of  it.  In  my  yellow  flowing 
wig  also  glittered  stars,  and  a  crescent  with  the  points  curved 
up  was  fastened  to  a  diadem  resting  on  my  hair.  Moonshine, 
as  usual,  was  popular,  and  only  at  half -past  five  o'clock  did 
the  moon  sink  to  rest. 

Among  the  many  dancers  at  the  ball  was  an  extra- 
ordinarily handsome  young  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  black  and 
silver.  He  was  watching  the  dancers  when  Governor 


THE  UGLY  DUCKLING  71 

Sheppard  asked  if  he  was  star  gazing.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I'm 
contemplating  the  moon,  and  I'm  going  to  be  the  first  man  in 
the  world  to  marry  her,"  pointing  in  my  direction. 

"  Do  you,"  said  Governor  Sheppard,  "  happen  to  know 
her  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sir  Walter,  "  nevertheless,  I  shall  marry  her." 
And  he  did,  the  following  winter. 


CHAPTER     XIV 

THE  WORLD'S  DIVINEST  LOVE 

"  God  cannot  be  everywhere,  so  He  made  mothers." — Egyptian  Proverb 

MY  observation  and  experience  in  life  convince  me 
that  certainly  God  can  trust,  with  very  little 
direction,  a  good  mother  to  do  His  work.  Men 
believe  the  progress  of  humanity  to  be  due  to  their  energy, 
but  the  maternal  instinct  is  the  most  powerful  lever  in  the 
world.  Through  it  children  are  born,  loved  and  cared  for 
even  though  they  bring  disgrace.  There  is  no  man  who 
understands  the  maternal  instinct  so  well  as  Barrie.  In  his 
play  of  "  The  Wedding  Guest  "  he  made  a  powerful  plea  for 
all  mothers,  even  the  unwedded  mother,  but  somehow  it 
failed.  Perhaps  he  was  not  bold  enough.  At  any  rate  his 
dormant  meaning  was  that  maternity  in  any  form  dignifies 
and  ennobles — and  with  a  true  mother  it  must  do  so.  There 
is  a  scene  between  the  old  maid  aunt,  who  in  her  heart  of 
hearts  had  longed  for  children,  and  the  artists'  model,  who 
was  the  mother  of  the  child  in  question.  The  aunt  is  prim, 
and,  even  while  loving  children,  thinks  it  a  condescension  to 
offer  to  adopt  the  baby — the  illegitimate  child  of  her  nephew 
— but  when  she  has  made  her  offer  the  mother  rises  in  her 
wrath  and  says,  "  Go,  you  childless  woman — go  !  "  That 
is  her  reproach — the  impossibility  of  a  woman  to  understand 
who  has  not  borne  children. 

There  are  many  women,  however,  who  have  never  been 
physical  mothers,  to  whom  Nature  has  given  the  mother's 
heart.  They  are  the  sisters  of  charity  who  care  for  the  aged, 
and  bring  up  and  love  the  nameless  foundling.  There  was  a 
nun  in  New  York,  a  famous  mendicant,  courageous  and  plucky 


THE  WORLD'S  DIVINEST  LOVE  73 

in  getting  money  for  her  convent,  and  when  she  died  there 
were  eighteen  hundred  orphaned  children  under  her  roof. 
What  a  great  mother's  heart  beat  in  her  breast !  There  must 
have  been  many  little  cherubs  to  welcome  her  directly  to 
Heaven,  for  surely  when  she  left  this  world  she  was  purged  of 
sin.  The  women  who  delight  in  nursing  the  sick  are  mothers. 
The  Salvation  Army  women  who  give  hope  to  the  fallen  and 
the  criminal  are  mothers.  The  founders  of  convents  are 
mothers ;  and  luckily  for  the  women  of  fashion  many  a 
nurse  or  a  governess  is  an  ideal  mother — tireless,  self- 
sacrificing  and  loving.  How  often  have  I  seen  in  the  South 
an  old  maid  sister,  or  aunt,  mothering  a  whole  set  of  fledglings, 
and  giving  up  her  whole  life  to  the  service  of  another  woman's 
children,  but  hers  by  right  of  love.  These  self -elected  mothers 
are  the  most  unselfish  of  ah1  the  race.  Maternity  is  so 
beautiful,  so  nearly  divine,  that  in  creating  humankind  it 
seems  to  me  an  infinite  pity  not  to  have  made  ah1  women 
mothers  at  thirty,  just  as  a  rose-tree  bursts  into  blossom. 
Then  the  woman's  heart,  filled  by  this  nearly  divine  love, 
would  have  opened  to  a  greater  understanding  of  humanity. 
And  it  is  not  only  the  love  for  her  own  child  that  so  opens 
the  heart  of  a  woman.  This  God-given  instinct  makes  her 
a  universal  mother.  Catholics  understand  this  in  looking 
upon  the  mother  of  God  as  the  mother  of  all  the  world.  And 
through  motherhood  a  new  interest  arises  in  all  children,  and 
the  woman  is  infinitely  more  tender  and  pitiful  to  sorrow  and 
trouble.  It  is  mother  love  which  creates  understanding  of 
both  sin  and  sorrow,  and  makes  forgiveness  possible. 

There  was  an  eminent  judge  in  a  certain  town  in  America 
who  had  an  only  son,  who  was  apparently  a  naturally  de- 
praved blackguard,  but  he  looked  as  unlike  the  accepted  idea 
of  one  as  possible.  Clear,  brown,  frank  eyes  met  yours  in  an 
honest,  straightforward  way.  There  were  dimples  in  his 
cheeks  and  chin,while  a  constant  laugh  displayed  strong  white 
teeth.  He  had  cordial,  engaging  manners,  a  quick  intelligence 
and  great  ability.  His  wife  was  a  beauty,  a  pocket  Venus, 
and  their  one  child,  a  little  girl  who  had  a  touch  of  genius, 
always  reminded  me  of  that  adorable  child,  Marjorie  Fleming, 


74  I  MYSELF 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  friend,  who  recorded  in  her  diary  that  "  the 
most  devilish  thing  is  8  times  8,  and  7  times  7  is  what  nature 
itself  can't  endure." 

But  all  these  advantages  did  not  produce  the  smallest 
effect  on  this  hard,  bad  nature.  A  black-hearted  villain 
can  laugh  quite  as  lightly  and  as  heartily  as  the  best  of  good 
fellows.  This  man  lied  and  drank,  and  cheated  at  cards, 
and  lost  caste,  and  finally  forged  his  father's  name.  To  save 
him  from  prison,  the  father  sold  what  property  he  had, 
mortgaged  his  house,  resigned  his  judgeship,  and  retired  with 
his  wife  and  daughters  to  the  country.  The  son  was  banished 
and  his  name  was  never  to  be  mentioned.  Of  course  he  went 
from  bad  to  worse,  and  finally  stole  the  watch  of  a  woman  of 
ill  repute,  was  arrested  and  put  into  prison.  Then  the 
divine  protecting  love  of  the  mother  asserted  itself,  and  Mrs 
N.  came  to  New  York,  where  I  was  living.  She  arrived  late 
in  the  evening  and  said,  "  Betty,  I  know  you'll  take  me  in  and 
help  Bobby."  Then  she  burst  into  uncontrollable  weeping. 

We  talked  until  two  in  the  morning,  and  when  I  went  to 
bed  I  heard  her  wearily  walking  in  her  room  the  whole  night 
through  ;  at  dawn  I  went  to  her  and  she  said  :  "  His  father 
and  the  girls  would  be  so  angry  if  they  knew  I  had  come. 
It  isn't  the  Bobby  of  now  that  I  want  so  much  to  save,  it's 
the  baby  who  once  lay  on  my  breast.  It's  the  chubby  child 
of  four,  so  strong  and  so  affectionate — why,  he  was  the  most 
loving  of  all  my  children  !  And  though  he  is  in  gaol  I  love 
him  still — I  am  his  mother." 

We  went  together  to  the  prison,  and  she  did  not  utter  one 
reproach,  but  gave  him  money,  and  employed  a  well-known 
attorney  to  defend  him.  And  he  got  off  with  a  light  sentence. 
Maybe  he  did  better  afterwards — I  never  heard  of  him  again. 
Truly  God  cannot  be  everywhere,  so  He  made  mothers.  I 
was  very  young  when  my  baby's  cry  flooded  my  heart  with 
a  warm  love,  an  anxious  love,  an  undying  love,  quite  unlike 
anything  I  had  ever  experienced.  "  Is  it  a  boy  ?  "  I  asked 
eagerly.  I  wanted  a  boy  and  Dr  Reilly  laughed  and  said  to 
the  nurse,  "  He  looks  like  a  boy,  doesn't  he,  Anne  ?  "  And 
when  he  was  cradled  in  my  arms,  in  all  my  life  that  was  the 


IN   THE   DAYS  OF   MY  YOUTH 

A   DEBUTANTE 


THE  WORLD'S  DIVINEST  LOVE  75 

very  happiest  moment.  It  must  be  a  terrible,  an  unspeak- 
able grief  to  lay  a  baby  in  his  little  white  muslin  shroud  in 
the  earth — but  rather  than  never  to  have  been  a  mother  at 
all  I  would  have  undergone  this  bitter  experience. 

When  my  baby  was  about  eighteen  months  old  we  had  a 
very  hot  summer  in  Washington,  and  he  was  taken  suddenly 
ill  with  that  dread  disease  from  which  children  suffer  in 
America — cholera  infantum — and  at  a  moment's  notice  we 
went  to  a  farm  in  the  country.  How  near  death  he  was ; 
how  wasted  away  to  a  little  pale  skeleton,  and  eaten  with 
fever  and  nearly  unconscious !  Neither  night  nor  day  did 
I  leave  him,  and  except  for  dozing  at  his  bedside  never 
felt  the  least  need  of  sleep.  Finally  the  weather  became 
a  little  cooler,  and  the  doctor  said  I  might  carry  him  about 
the  garden  on  a  pillow.  He  had  not  as  yet  taken  the  least 
notice  of  anything,  but  as  I  walked  under  the  trees  in  a 
meadow  I  passed  by  an  old  white  horse  who  lifted  up  his 
head  from  the  grass,  and  suddenly  the  child  smiled,  and  put 
up  a  poor  little  thin  hand  to  stroke  the  animal's  nose.  I  sat 
down  at  the  horse's  feet,  and  had  a  good  happy  cry,  for  I 
felt  my  baby  was  going  to  get  well.  From  the  farmhouse 
we  went  to  the  mountains  in  Virginia  and  joined  my  friends, 
Harriet  and  Henry  Morgan.  Toodie  was  quite  well  then, 
and  could  toddle  around,  and  insist  upon  his  own  way,  which 
Franzie  Morgan  and  his  other  older  playmates  willingly 
gave  him.  Franzie  was  one  of  those  children,  so  beautiful, 
appealing,  intelligent,  gentle  and  obedient,  that  one  has  an 
instinctive  feeling  that  it  is  impossible  they  can  grow  up  to 
selfishness  and  evil.  Although  too  young  to  have  a  com- 
prehension of  what  adverse  criticism  of  a  man  meant,  if  he 
heard  it  he  lifted  his  noble  head  from  his  toys  and  said  with 
a  heavenly  smile,  "  But  he's  good,  he's  good."  He  had 
given  eight  years  of  pure  happiness  to  his  mother  when,  in 
her  own  language,  "  he  went  away  to  the  beautiful  country." 
The  wind  is  tempered  to  the  shorn  lamb,  and  a  clear,  intense, 
complete  faith  in  a  Hereafter  has  been  given  to  Harriet 
Morgan.  She  is  as  sure  of  the  reality  of  another  life  as  I  am 
of  the  reality  of  this  one.  The  utter  unselfishness  of  her 


76  I  MYSELF 

grief  for  her  one  ewe  lamb  went  to  the  very  core  of  my 
heart.  Indeed,  the  unselfishness  of  her  whole  life,  which  she 
gave  up  entirely  to  comfort  the  sick  and  lift  up  the  weak- 
hearted,  kept  her  from  being  a  famous  woman,  for  she  was 
gifted  with  a  perfectly  original,  humorous  and,  at  the  same 
time,  poetical  mind.  The  veriest  prose  she  translated  into 
poetry.  The  most  sordid  scandal  she  covered  up  with  a  soft 
veil  of  heavenly  charity.  And  hers  was  the  merriest, 
gayest,  sunniest,  most  hopeful  nature  I  ever  saw ;  no 
circumstances  daunted  her  optimism,  or  her  belief  in  the 
steady  improvement  and  progress  of  the  world.  "  From 
hatred  and  malice,  Good  Lord  deliver  us  !  "  were  words  not 
written  for  her.  Nothing  approaching  those  qualities  was 
known  to  her  tender  heart.  She  had  entered  a  purified 
intellectual  atmosphere  and  left  all  the  meannesses  of  life 
down  below.  Franzie  had  given  her  the  play-name  of 
"  Rosy  Pink,"  which  suited  her  to  perfection  ;  his  father, 
Henry  Morgan,  was  "  Tom,"  and  he  was  "  Jack  O'Nory." 

The  clouds  were  beginning  to  darken  my  horizon  at  this 
time,  and  those  three  dear  ones,  Rosy  Pink,  and  Tom,  and 
Jack  O'Nory,  were  my  constant  friends  and  playmates,  my 
refuge  from  all  that  was  unhappy  and  disquieting.  But 
Franzie  never  grew  up,  and  his  death  only  added  to  the  un- 
selfishness of  his  mother.  Her  letters  were  touchingly  tender 
and  resigned,  though  the  light  of  her  life  had  gone  out  : 

"  1015  L.  STREET, 
"  WASHINGTON,  Thursday. 

"  ELIZABESS  DEAR, — Oh,  the  old-fashioned  name.  '  Eliza- 
bess  '  he  called  it.  How  I  thank  you  for  the  dear  loving 
letter ;  with  all  the  kind  letters  that  came  from  those  who 
loved  little  Babio  Mow,  little  Jack,  little  Franzie,  I  missed 
greatly  yours,  and  Will  went  round  twice  to  N.  Street  to  ask 
if  you  were  still  in  Virginia.  On  the  I2th  August  Will  wrote 
to  you  at  Berkley  Springs  and  I  knew  you  had  never  received 
the  letter  or  you  would  have  written  to  your  poor  Hallie,  one 
of  your  '  wedding  guests/  who  is  walking  about  in  the 


THE  WORLD'S  DIVINEST  LOVE  77 

world  whose  sun  is  set,  while  the  other  is  full  of  gladness  in 
the  beautiful  country.  He  had  been  so  well  this  summer, 
so  good,  so  beautiful,  so  bright,  that  I  have  sometimes 
thought  it  was  wrong  not  to  take  him  among  his  people 
because  he  was  so  worthy  of  admiration,  and  then  we  thought 
a  simple  life  was  the  most  healthy  for  him  body  and  spirit. 
For  one  week  after  he  was  taken  ill  we  fancied  he  had  only 
a  common  ulcerated  sore  throat,  and  the  new  homoeopathic 
doctor  in  the  country  said  he  was  not  really  ill.  He  was 
downstairs  on  the  sofa,  sometimes  walking  about,  and  some- 
times singing,  but  sleeping  a  good  deal.  On  the  sixth  day 
Tom  brought  out  a  doctor  from  the  city  and  the  next  morning 
we  all  came  into  the  town.  From  that  time,  dear,  we  began 
to  trouble  our  little  one  greatly,  trying  to  make  him  well, 
but  he  only  stayed  with  us  one  week  longer,  lovely  and 
loving  till  he  left  us,  and  Tom  and  I  are  desolate.  It  was 
diphtheria,  but  we  have  to  thank  the  Merciful  Father  that  the 
suffering  of  that  terrible  disease  was  spared  to  us  and  him, 
and  that  his  little  lovely  noble  face  looked  beautiful  through 
all.  I  do  not  think  we  are  rebellious,  Elizabess  dear,  I 
believe  that  our  whole  hearts  are  turned  towards  that  bliss- 
ful day  of  meeting  again,  but  the  road  we  are  travelling  is 
very  desolate  and  we  are  so  lonely  for  our  little  one.  Tom 
read  your  letter  with  the  tears  streaming.  He  says,  '  Oh, 
such  a  kind,  dear  letter.  She  has  a  good  loving  heart.' 

"  Oh,  Elizabeth,  what  can  we  do  ?  I  cannot  write  any 
more  to-day.  Kiss  darling  little  Toodie  for  me. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  love  and  prayers.  I  hope  you  will 
come  soon  to  us.  Your  loving  HALLIE 

"  Do  you  remember  my  darling's  name  for  me,  his  name, 
Rosy  Pink,  dear,  dear  name  ! 

"  Tom  and  Rosy  send  you  love  and  thanks.  Will  is  in  New 
York.  In  our  time  of  trouble  he  was  father  and  mother  and 
brother  to  us  and  never  left  us." 

A  beneficent  providence  has  left  me  Tom  and  Rosy  Pink. 
Tom  and  Rosy,  like  myself,  are  older  now,  and  when  I  go 


78  I  MYSELF 

back  to  Washington,  which  is  through  many  associations 
so  dear  to  me,  by  taking  a  train  and  travelling  a  little  way  in 
the  country  I  arrive  at  Rose  Garden,  where  I  have  passed 
so  many  happy  days.  They  sold  it  once,  and  then  Rosy 
cried  all  night,  and  the  next  day  Tom  bought  it  back  again, 
by  giving  the  owner  (who  vowed  he  loved  it  so,  although  he 
had  only  owned  it  one  day,  he  couldn't  part  with  it)  an  extra 
rive  hundred  dollars  more  than  he  had  paid  for  it.  Tom  and 
Rosy  are  not  good  business  people — every  one  has  profited 
by  them.  I  have  worn  Rosy's  pearl  earrings  for  thirty 
years,  and  by  this  time  she  has  given  away  all  her  pretty 
things,  but  she  has  still  love,  and  enthusiasm  and  apprecia- 
tion, and  hospitality  to  give  to  those  who  ask  it — this  truest 
and  best  and  sweetest  of  all  the  women  in  my  human  garden 
of  friends. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MY  FIRST  EMPLOYMENT 

Work  is  the  salvation  of  a  tried  and  restless  soul. 

WHEN  my  father's  health  began  to  fail,  and  we  with 
others  were  dependent  upon  him,  without  con- 
sulting anybody  I  went  to  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  General  Grant  then,  and  asked  him  to  give 
me  employment.     Diplomacy  is  all  very  well,  but  I  believe 
in  going  to  the  first  person  in  power  when  a  favour  is  wanted, 
and    stating    quite   frankly   your    necessity,     Many   people 
love  go-betweens  ;    I  always  do  without  them  and  am  my 
own    go-between — it   saves    much    trouble    and    misunder- 
standing. 

General  Grant  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  be  polite  to  me 
as  a  girl  on  my  first  appearance  at  a  White  House  reception, 
and  had  said  something  to  my  father  about  me  which  had 
pleased  him  greatly.  And  my  liking  for  him  was  strong  and 
instinctive  ;  he  was  so  quiet,  with  steady,  kind  eyes,  a  deep, 
agreeable  voice,  and  gave  an  instant  impression  of  strength 
and  manliness.  I  talked  to  him  freely,  and  he  said  there 
was  some  work  which  could  be  given  me  in  the  War  Office 
among  the  archives,  which  were  then  in  process  of  being 
sorted,  indexed  and  made  into  books.  His  rugged  face 
softened,  and  he  added,  "  Perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  for  you 
to  have  your  work  at  home,  you  are  really  too  young  to  go 
to  an  office.  I'll  speak  to  our  new  Secretary  for  War  and 
see  what  can  be  done." 

Don  Cameron  had  just  been  made  Secretary  for  War,  and 
he  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  send  the  MSS.  to  me  and  to  make 
an  exception  in  my  case.  But  of  course  General  Grant  had 

79 


8o  I  MYSELF 

his  way,  and  I  worked  at  home  on  the  archives,  while  Toodie 
by  my  side  careered  back  and  forth  on  a  fine  rocking  horse 
covered  with  real  horseskin  and  with  the  flaring  nostrils  of 
a  racehorse,  a  tribute  of  affection  to  him  from  a  wealthy 
friend  in  New  York.  Subsequently  I  went  to  the  War  Office 
for  a  short  time,  and  joined  the  ladies  there  who  were  doing 
the  same  work.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  occupation.  We 
arrived  at  nine  (or  for  me  thereabouts)  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  left  the  office  at  four,  and  I  made  two  friendships 
which  have  been  of  lifelong  duration. 

My  dear  father  was  much  opposed  to  my  doing  anything 
at  all,  and  himself  offered  to  substitute  my  salary,  but  I 
have  always  loved  work — it  is  the  greatest  aid  to  happiness, 
to  steadiness  of  nerve,  to  good  judgment  and  sanity,  in  the 
whole  world.  I  only  hope  that  I  shall  die  in  harness,  for 
idleness  to  me  is  in  my  changeful  life  self-introspection  and 
grief.  If  only  I  had  done  this  at  that  time,  and  not  done 
that  at  another  time,  life  might  be  different — but  all 
repining  is  so  useless  and  so  weak.  It  is  difficult,  with 
insomnia  ever  at  my  door,  and  unstrung  nerves,  to  master 
and  dismiss  thought,  but  these  words  of  John  Trotwood 
Moore,  that  industrious  and  delightful  writer  of  the  South, 
have  been  of  infinite  help  and  comfort  to  me  : 

1.  Throw  off  the  curbs  of  thy  past ! 

2.  Fools  cling  to  their  folly,  and  the  witless  to  the  beaten  highway. 

But  be  thou  wise  to  seek  the  new  road  that  leadeth  to  the  life 
anew.  Throw  off  the  curbs  of  thy  past. 

3.  Grieve  not  over  things  agone.    Shed  not  tears  for  past  errors. 

Let  the  penance  of  thy  past  shrive  the  dead  of  thy  past  and 
be  thou  the  High  Priest  of  thine  own  future.  Throw  off  the 
curbs  of  thy  past ! 

Wise  is  he  who  garnereth  honey  from  the  hornets'  nest,  and  worthy 
of  praise  who  followeth  the  sting  of  bees  to  the  bee  tree.  Throw 
off  the  curbs  of  thy  past. 

Forget  thou  wert  ever  wronged  ;  remember  not  that  thou  wert  ill- 
used  ;  think  not  of  the  days  of  thy  scorning,  for  by  taking 
thought  of  them  they  become  part  of  thee,  and  having  already 
had  their  setting  by  thy  fireside  thou  wantest  them  no  longer 
as  the  guests  of  thy  soul.  Throw  off  the  curbs  of  thy  past. 


MY  FIRST  EMPLOYMENT  81 

"  Forget  thou  wert  ever  wronged."  "  Throw  off  the  curbs 
of  thy  past."  The  essence  of  a  brave  and  gentle  philosophy 
is  all  there.  It  is  curious  this  help  of  certain  writers  to  certain 
people.  A  most  charming  Florentine,  the  Marquesa  Picco- 
lellis,  told  me  James  Lane  Allen's  "  The  Choir  Invisible  " 
had  been  to  her  in  a  time  of  mental  conflict  like  the  Balm  of 
Gilead.  And  this  year  in  New  York  Mrs  Waith  gave  me 
Gustav  Frenson's  "  Jorn  Uhl,"  saying  it  had  brought  light 
and  peace  into  her  life  in  her  darkest  hour.  To  me  it  is  a 
sad  and  depressing  book,  with  only  the  magnificent  descrip- 
tion of  the  battle  of  Gravelotte  (which  should  be  used  as  a 
tract  for  peace)  to  illumine  its  relentless  pages. 

In  the  old  days  in  Washington  I  used  to  see  a  good  deal 
of  Walt  Whitman.  He  was  an  early  riser  and  often  walked 
with  George  Douglas — a  brilliant  young  journalist  then  on 
Don  Piatt's  fearless  paper  "  The  Capital," — and  myself  to  the 
War  Office.  Walt  Whitman  was  extraordinarily  handsome 
and  definite  in  appearance.  His  skin  was  as  pink  and  white 
as  a  baby's.  His  hair,  which  he  wore  rather  long,  was  like 
spun  silver,  and  his  eyes  were  an  intense  burning  blue.  All 
the  spring  and  summer  he  was  dressed  from  top  to  toe  in 
spotless  white — a  big  white  slouch  hat,  white  serge  or  linen 
clothes,  a  soft  white  linen  shirt  left  quite  unbuttoned  at  the 
throat,  and  white  shoes.  He  was  very  merry  and  cheerful, 
and  often  carried  a  roll  of  MS.  and  generally  read  bits  of  it  in  a 
sonorous  voice  to  us  as  we  walked  along.  Douglas  was  one 
of  his  warmest  admirers,  and  was  ever  ready  to  listen.  My 
mind  in  those  days  was  too  undeveloped  to  appreciate  the 
manliness,  virility  and  courage  of  his  work.  Now  I  under- 
stand. The  late  John  Bright,  who  was  an  appreciative  lover 
of  poetry,  considered  Walt  Whitman  a  great  poet,  and  with 
his  fine  elocution  he  loved  to  repeat  whole  pages  from 
"  Leaves  of  Grass."  Mr  Labouchere  once  said  to  Bright, 
"  Most  people  have  read  Milton's  '  Paradise  Lost,'  but  I 
wonder  if  anybody  has  read  '  Paradise  Regained/  "  where- 
upon Bright  began  with  the  first  line  and  sonorously  repeated 
the  greater  part  of  it  then  and  there  ;  Mr  Labouchere 
6 


82  I  MYSELF 

frankly  confesses  this  is  his  only  experience  of  "  Paradise 
Regained." 

One  day  Douglas  and  I  went  to  Walt  Whitman's  room  to 
see  him  ;  he  had  only  one — he  was  very  poor — and  it  was 
as  sparsely  furnished  as  a  monk's,  but  very  clean  and  tidy, 
and  he  made  us  fragrant  Virginia  coffee  (he  loved  a  little 
cooking),  and  brought  out  some  old-fashioned  Southern 
gingerbread  for  me,  and  then  he  read  for  quite  an  hour,  with 
an  occasional  glance  at  me.  He  saw  I  lacked  enthusiasm, 
but  said  it  was  the  fault  of  youth  and  femininity,  that  he 
had  every  hope  of  my  growing  up  some  day  to  the  highest 
leaf  of  grass,  and  I  remember  his  voice,  which  was  expressive 
and  full  of  colour,  in  these  lines  : 

Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking 

Out  of  the  mocking-bird's  throat,  the  musical  shuttle 

Out  of  the  ninth-month  midnight, 

Over  the  sterile  sands  and  the  fields  beyond,  where  the  child  leaving 

his  bed  wander'd  alone,  bareheaded,  barefoot. 
Down  from  the  shower'd  halo, 
Up  from  the  mystic  play  of  shadows  twining  and  twisting  as  if  they 

were  alive 

Out  from  the  patches  of  briers  and  blackberries 
From  the  memories  of  the  bird  that  chanted  to  me. 

He  said  :  "  You  are  from  the  land  of  mocking  birds,  you 
know  the  musical  shuttle  of  his  throat  all  blown  to  roundness 
by  his  thrilling  melody."  And  Douglas  begged  him  to  read 
"  A  Festival  Song  "  : 

"  The  duet  of  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride,  a  marriage  march, 
With  lips  of  love,  the  hearts  of  lovers  fill'd  to  the  brim  with  love, 
The  red  flushed  cheeks  and  perfumes,  the  cortege  swarming  full  of 

friendly  faces  young  and  old, 
To  flutes'  clear  notes  and  sounding  harps'  cantabile." 

It  sounded  really  like  a  song  from  his  lips  ;  and  I  wondered 
why  he  had  never  been  a  bridegroom.  Later,  one  delight- 
ful first  of  May,  he  and  Douglas,  old  black  Sophy  (Toodie's 
nurse),  Toodie  and  I  went  over  in  the  boat  from  Washington 
to  Alexandria,  spent  the  day  in  and  around  the  old  church 


MY  FIRST  EMPLOYMENT  83 

looking  at  the  tombs  and  the  English  names.  We  made  a 
simple  lunch  of  bread,  fried  chicken  and  milk  on  the  porch 
of  a  little  hotel,  and  came  home  in  the  twilight,  laden  with 
white  lilac,  and  Toodie  very  tired  and  sleepy,  but  ecstati- 
cally happy,  holding  in  his  hand  a  huge  gingerbread  horse 
with  raisin  eyes,  which  Walt  Whitman  had  sighted  in  the 
window  of  a  little  shop,  and,  though  it  was  an  advertisement, 
had  bought  it  and  triumphantly  borne  away. 

Douglas  was  a  budding  poet  too,  and  on  the  boat  he  read 
these  verses  to  Walt  Whitman  ;  they  were  going  into  "  The 
Capital  "  the  next  Sunday,  and  Whitman  clapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  said  :  "  Good,  good  !  "  with  his  eyes  dancing 
at  me.  "  I  reckon  she  understands  that  kind  of  poetry, 
George."  The  MS.  "  Bessie  "  was  given  to  me  then,  signed 
by  the  author  and  initialled  by  Walt  Whitman,  and  it  is 
with  other  relics  of  my  youth  locked  in  a  box  and  labelled 
"  Boysie  "  for  my  grandson. 

BESSIE 

Where,  my  sweet  enemy,  lies  your  power 

To  move  men's  wills  ? 
You  are  a  deadly  perfumed  flower 

That  shines  and  kills. 
Your  face  is  brighter  than  a  diamond's  splendour 

Or  any  jewel ; 
Swift  eyed,  yet  sad,  and  seeming  tender 

Demure  and  cruel. 

Thrown  back  in  warm  and  mingling  tresses 

Your  fragrant  hair 
Falls  from  a  brow  too  chaste  for  love's  caresses, 

Too  chaste  and  fair. 
Your  lips  blush  deeper  than  the  roses, 

Your  murmuring  words 
Are  better  than  the  breath  of  violet  closes 

Or  song  of  birds. 

I  watch  you,  love,  my  heart  is  trembling 

To  find  you  there. 
So  strangely  self-same  undissembling, 

So  fair,  so  fair  ! 


84  I  MYSELF 

Calmer  than  death,  a  white-faced  statue, 

How  can  I  move  you  ? 
I  love  you  dearly,  wondering  at  you, 

Hate  you  and  love  you  ! 

Leave  go  my  soul  and  let  me  hasten 

Far  from  your  spell. 
These  bonds  you  bind  me  with  unfasten 

While  all  is  well ! 
Why  do  you  glisten  with  such  beauty, 

So  strong  and  fateful, 
When  walking  coldly  down  the  paths  of  duty 

You  seem  so  hateful ! 

I  think  of  treason,  plot,  defiance, 

Your  vivid  presence 
Comes  on  and  holds  me  with  a  magic  science 

That  never  lessens. 
You  are  so  subtle,  so  magnetic, 

I  thrill  and  crave 
Servile  beneath  you  and  ecstatic 

Like  a  drugged  slave. 

Eyes  swift  like  lodestars  in  clear  winter  weather, 

Lids  lashed  and  curled. 
Oh,  face  more  fair  than  worlds  together 

Than  all  the  world. 
Why  will  your  glory  ever  so  pursue  me 

With  pleasant  pain  ? 
Bright  eyes  that  kill  me  with  your  burning  through  me 

And  quicken  me  again. 

I  ask  not  love — nor  love's  endearment 

But  only  this  ; 
To  kiss  the  hem  of  my  lady's  garment 

With  a  soul's  whole  kiss. 
To  have  you  near  me,  waking,  sleeping, 

Living  and  dead, 
To  give  my  heart,  sweetheart,  into  your  keeping 

And  keep  you  in  its  stead. 

Although  Douglas  was  young  enough  to  be  Walt  Whit- 
man's grandson,  Whitman  outlived  him  many  years,  and 
we  wept  together  at  the  grave  of  our  friend,  who  died  in  early 
manhood  too  soon  to  fulfil  the  promise  of  his  gifted  youth. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LOVE   MEANS   SACRIFICE 

MY  vacation  that  year  was  spent  with  friends  in 
New  York.  I  had  always  loved  the  theatre,  and 
everything  connected  with  it,  and  I  was  sure, 
without  ever  having  acted  even  in  a  charade,  that  I  could 
act,  and  so  I  went  to  see  A.  M.  Palmer,  who  was  at  that 
time  in  the  zenith  of  his  success  as  a  theatrical  manager.  I 
told  him  what  I  wanted,  and  he  asked  me  to  walk  across 
the  stage  and  repeat  some  bits  of  poetry,  anything  I  could 
remember.  I  was  horribly  frightened,  and  have  always  had 
a  memory  like  a  sieve,  but  in  some  way  I  managed  it,  and 
he  then  and  there  agreed  to  give  me  a  three  years'  engagement 
at  twenty-five  dollars  a  week,  and  to  arrange  elocution, 
singing  and  fencing  lessons  for  me. 

I  ventured  to  say  :  "  Then  you  think  I  have  some  talent  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mr  Palmer,  "  but  you 
have  individuality,  and  some  day  some  fellow  will  come  along 
and  see  it,  and  write  a  play  you  that  will  suit  you,  and  then 
you  may  make  a  big  success.  Now  you  have  everything  to 
learn,  and  much  hard  work  before  you.  Come  to-morrow 
morning  and  sign  your  contract." 

The  world  had  suddenly  become  a  paradise  to  me,  and 
when  I  asked  "  When  am  I  to  begin  work  ?  "  "  Next 
week,"  Mr  Palmer  said. 

It  was  midsummer,  his  excellent  company  was  on  tour, 
but  the  Vokes  were  going  to  do  a  short  season,  and  there 
was  a  very  small,  unimportant  part  which  could  be  assigned 
to  me.  The  next  morning  I  signed  my  contract,  and  the 
day  after  I  returned  to  Washington. 

My  father's  health  was  just  beginning  to  fail ;    he  died 

eighteen  months  later  ;  and  when  I  showed  him,  with  great 

85 


86  I  MYSELF 

pride  and  joy,  my  contract,  he  wept — the  bitter  tears  of 
weakness,  sorrow  and  old  age.  He  knew  absolutely  nothing 
of  the  stage,  but  he  considered  it  an  abyss  of  wickedness  and 
vagabondage.  He  said  that,  much  as  he  loved  me,  he  would 
rather  see  me  dead  than  a  "  play  actress."  I  called  upon 
mother,  who  was  less  prejudiced  and  had  great  influence 
with  him,  to  plead  for  me,  but  he  was  immovable,  and 
finally,  after  two  days  of  misery  for  us  all,  I  sat  down  and 
wrote  Mr  Palmer  a  long  letter,  and  he  sent  me  a  telegram  : 
"  Very  sorry.  Quite  understand.  Am  writing."  And  he 
did  write  me  such  a  kind  letter  to  say  that  some  good  fortune 
would  attend  my  obedience  ;  but  he  was  mistaken.  "  The 
setting  of  a  great  hope  is  like  the  setting  of  the  sun."  I 
loved  my  father,  and  made  the  supremest  sacrifice  of  my 
life  for  him,  but  I  was  not  happy,  for  the  great  hope  and 
desire  of  all  my  life  was  dead — my  sun  had  set.  He  did  it 
for  the  best,  but  it  was  a  mistake  on  his  part,  and  even  on 
mine  to  give  way  to  him.  It  was  necessary  for  me  to  make 
my  living,  and  I  should  have  been  allowed  to  choose  the 
work  most  congenial  and  best  suited  to  me.  We  must  all 
live  our  own  lives  ;  there  are  probably  so  many  years  before 
us  when  our  parents  are  gone  that  it  is  well  for  them  to 
recognize  this  in  the  beginning,  and  to  let  us  individually 
work  out  our  own  salvation.  There  is  nothing  sadder  or 
more  depressing  in  life  than  the  feeling  of  having  missed  one's 
vocation — and  it  has  always  pursued  me.  In  this  respect 
my  father  was  supremely  happy.  He  had  chosen  the  pro- 
fession of  ah1  others  best  suited  to  him.  He  loved  the  law, 
he  had  a  prodigious  memory — his  mind  was  like  an  en- 
cyclopaedia of  the  statutes  and  the  different  cases  which  he 
argued  before  the  Supreme  Court.  It  was  scarcely  necessary 
for  him  to  consult  his  well-stocked  library.  And  he  had  an 
innate  love  of  bringing  order  out  of  chaos,  and  a  bull-dog 
tenacity  of  never  letting  go  when  he  had  once  taken  hold 
that  was  unparalleled. 

The  remainder  of  that  summer  between  us  was  a  very 
intimate  one.  We  were  alone  ;  mother  and  her  baby,  my  dear 
youngest  brother  (Sam  Paschal),  just  the  age  of  my  little  son, 
had  gone  into  the  country,  and  my  father  and  I  read  and 


LOVE  MEANS  SACRIFICE  87 

worked  together,  and  sat  up  late  at  night  with  a  jug  of  iced 
water  between  us  and  a  little  fruit,  discussing  all  sorts  of 
questions.  We  never  mentioned  the  stage,  but  he  was  very 
tender  to  me,  for  he  knew  I  had  made  my  supreme  sacrifice 
— and  I  was  cheerful,  for  my  motto  has  always  been,  "  If  you 
do  a  thing  at  all  do  it  thoroughly."  Every  sacrifice,  great 
or  small,  should  be  made  bravely  or  not  at  all.  I  was  never 
more  impressed  by  this  than  when  Lady  Q.  told  me  about 
the  marriage  of  her  eldest  son.  He  was  the  favourite  of 
all  her  children — handsome,  clever,  generous,  sympathetic 
and  affectionate,  but  lacking  in  common-sense  (that  rarest 
of  all  the  qualities),  and  he  married  a  lady  who  had  for  a 
number  of  years  spent  her  evenings  in  the  Alhambra  and 
was,  alas,  too  well  known  to  the  jeunesse  doree  of  London. 
Sir  Q.,  the  father,  was  utterly  disgusted,  and  said  of  course 
they  must  cut  the  son,  and  his  name  must  never  be  men- 
tioned— and  for  a  year  there  was  silence.  Then  Lady  Q. 
said,  "  Q.,  I  must  see  Bobby  again.  We  must  ask  him  and 
his  wife  to  visit  us."  Sir  Q.  said,  "  Impossible,"  and  his 
wife  said,  "  No,  it  isn't."  Sir  Q.  said,  "  That  woman — 
how  shall  we  receive  her  ?  "  Lady  Q.  looked  at  him  with 
her  tender,  faithful  eyes,  and  said,  "  We  will  receive  her 
exactly  like  a  daughter."  And  she  said  to  me,  "  I  did ;  I 
made  no  difference  between  her  and  my  own  children." 
And  she  added,  "  She  was  very  sweet  in  many  ways,  and  she 
has  made  me  more  charitable  to  every  other  woman  with  a 
chequered  past." 

This  is  true  generosity,  not  only  to  forgive,  but  to  do  it 
nobly  and  entirely.  There  is  indeed  no  use  in  doing  any- 
thing in  a  petty  manner.  A  great  psychological  doctor  says 
there  are  thirty-six  differences  between  a  negro  and  a  white 
man — one  of  them  is  that  the  negro's  leg  is  placed  in  the 
middle  of  his  foot,  giving  him  as  much  foot  behind  as  before. 
In  a  crowd  on  the  street  in  Washington  a  little  darkie  was 
stepping  on  an  old  white-haired  negro  in  the  rear,  when  the 
old  man  turned  around  and  said,  "  Boy,  git  off  my  heel — 
git  intirely  off."  So  if  we  are  going  to  do  anything  in  life, 
we  should  do  it  with  a  whole  heart,  and  "  intirely,"  like 
getting  off  the  darkie's  heel. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  NOBLE  LIFE 

"  Death  meant,  to  spurn  the  ground, 
Soar  to  the  sky — die  well  and  you  do  that."    BROWNING 

THE  year  after  we  had  spent  the  summer  so  happily 
alone  together,  my  father's  health  began  to  be 
seriously  affected,  and  a  long  and  very  dreadful 
illness  followed,  but  in  all  his  terrible  insomnia,  and  constant 
pain,  I  never  heard  him  say  an  impatient  word.  He  was 
far  more  distressed  at  giving  trouble  to  the  nurses,  and  to  the 
family,  than  on  account  of  his  own  suffering,  and  even  when 
his  mind  began  to  be  obscured  he  never  forgot  for  a  moment 
his  beautiful  consideration,  and  his  courtly  manners.  When 
I  would  go  into  the  room  in  the  morning  sometimes  he  would 
look  at  me  blankly,  and  say  to  the  nurse  :  "  Robert,  give 
this  lady  a  chair.  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  offer  you  a  seat 
myself,  madam,  but  as  you  see  I  am  ill.  Will  you  have  a 
cup  of  tea  ?  "  and  then  I  would  say  to  him  :  '  Oh,  dearest, 
don't  you  know  me  ?  "  And  my  voice  never  failed  to  call 
him  back,  and  he  would  sigh  and  say,  "  I  thought,  my 
daughter,  for  a  moment,  you  were  a  stranger ;  and  it  does 
distress  me  so,  not  to  be  able  to  give  visitors  a  proper 
welcome."  Whenever  I  entered  his  room,  my  father  had 
risen  and  said  to  me  :  "  Will  you  have  this  chair,  my 
daughter  ?  "  And  when  I  went  out  he  opened  the 
door.  His  politeness  was  as  natural  to  him  as  the  breath 
that  he  drew,  and  even  when  he  suffered  occasionally  from 
delirium  during  the  last  weeks  of  his  life  he  was  always 
courteous  and  always  considerate.  And  when  he  died  my 
careless  youth  ended.  Life  was  never  the  same  to  me  again. 

88 


A  NOBLE  LIFE  89 

While  he  lived  my  worries,  no  matter  what  they  were,  seemed 
to  drop  naturally  on  his  broad  shoulders  and  he  was  only  too 
glad  that  they  should.  There  was  never  anyone  like  him. 
He  was  wise,  and  just,  and  merciful,  and  courageous,  and 
charitable,  and  true,  and  self-sacrificing,  and  pure  in  mind 
and  heart.  The  exalted  and  humane  religion  of  his  life 
gave  him  as  nearly  divine  a  spirit  as  mortal  can  possess.  He 
believed  that  at  the  eleventh  hour,  by  a  Christ-like  inspira- 
tion, the  wickedest  sinner  could  turn  about,  repent,  and  be 
the  means  of  great  good  in  the  world.  He  believed  that 
the  liars,  hypocrites  and  thieves  had  a  chance  of  becoming, 
through  a  change  of  heart,  repentant  saints,  and  he  believed 
the  Magdalens  could  all  shrive  their  souls  of  uncleanness  and 
become  pure  once  more.  His  outlook  on  all  evil  was  that 
of  a  forgiving  and  merciful  and  optimistic  saint.  I  loved 
him  not  only  for  his  saintliness,  but  for  himself,  and  I  have 
never  ceased  throughout  my  life  for  one  moment  to  lament 
his  loss,  and  sorely  to  miss  his  absence. 

After  my  father's  death,  at  the  meeting  of  the  Washington 
Bar,  the  Chief  Justice  Carter  presiding,  Mr  Riddell  said  of 
him  in  his  memorial  speech  : 

"  Judge  Paschal  was  quiet,  of  grave  face  and  thoughtful 
mien,  but  a  word  dispelled  the  seeming  reserve,  the  features 
lit  with  a  smile,  followed  with  pleasant  words.  He  was  a 
man  of  the  highest  character,  the  frankest  manners,  of 
warm  impulses  and  temperament,  full  of  a  tender  sensibility, 
a  true,  noble  child  of  the  South,  illustrating  in  character 
and  life  what  is  best  of  her  generous  products.  Nature 
endowed  him  liberally :  a  life  of  pure  morality,  abstemious 
habits,  a  rare  power  and  will  for  persistent  labour,  these, 
and  his  many  years,  made  him  that  rare  thing  after  all,  a 
very  able  and  most  accomplished  lawyer.  A  lawyer,  whom 
every  lawyer  calls  a  lawyer,  is  in  the  main  the  result  of 
growth,  to  which  much  time,  many  years  with  care  and  much 
culture  are  necessary.  Not  the  care  of  the  hothouse,  nor 
yet  greatly  the  culture  of  the  schools,  or  of  philosophic 
retirement,  but  that  which  is  had  in  the  free  open  atmo- 
sphere of  the  Nisi  Prius  Courts,  and  in  the  never-ending 


go  I  MYSELF 

mental  contests,  of  strong,  vigorous,  sinewy  minds,  daily  at 
their  best  in  the  adjustment  of  the  most  interesting  and 
important  affairs  of  individual  man. 

"  Trained  in  this  school,  cultured  in  its  ever  varied  law, 
Judge  Paschal  was  a  lawyer — few  men  were  ever  more  so — a 
learned  lawyer.  This  is  about  the  highest  praise  lawyers 
ever  do  or  can  award  the  leading  men  of  their  ranks.  They 
say  an  advocate's  effort  was  '  lawyer  like/  and  in  this  they 
bestow  their  most  valued  encomium.  No  men  know  better 
the  value  of  their  fellows.  No  profession  in  the  world  is  less 
jealous  of  the  fame  of  each  other.  They  know  the  limits  of 
human  excellence,  and,  save  in  exceptional  instances,  that 
there  is  no  great  difference  among  really  good  lawyers.  In 
this  sense  Judge  Paschal  was  really  a  great  lawyer.  Great 
as  they  have  anywhere.  He  was  something  more  than  a 
mere  lawyer.  It  has  never  taken  the  greatest  human  in- 
tellect to  make  the  greatest  lawyer ;  possibly  the  greatest  mind 
might  miss  that  distinction.  Judge  Paschal  was  a  man  of 
wide,  liberal,  enlightened  views — the  views  of  a  Statesman. 
He  was  a  man  of  thought,  of  ideals,  of  high  aspirations,  and  of 
wide  learning. 

"  I  first  met  my  friend  here.  We  were  not  much  alike — he 
from  the  extreme  South — I  from  the  farthest  North.  He, 
'  raised  '  amidst  institutions  of  which  the  chief  was  slavery — 
I,  reared  in  the  civilization  of  puritans.  He  was  an  exile  from  a 
home  and  country  in  ruins ;  I,  with  the  disappointments  which 
all  men  meet,  had  survived  the  friends  of  my  youth  and  early 
manhood  and  was  living  on  memory  ;  both  were  at  a  time  of 
life  when  men  rarely  form  new  attachments  ;  I  know  not  what 
drew  us  together.  Our  unlikeness  may  have  helped  the  tie 
which  formed  so  silently  that  we  may  have  been  unconscious 
of  its  strength  till  it  was  touched  by  death.  This  blow  inten- 
sifies the  solitude  of  my  life.  I  cast  my  eyes  about  to  see  how 
lonely  I  stand.  To  my  friend  was  given  a  clear  steady  hope 
of  the  future  ;  he  died  with  its  glow  on  the  opening  pinions  of 
his  spirit.  We  may  not  regret  him.  His  career  was  com- 
pleted. He  lived  and  died  a  man  :  every  inch,  fibre,  instinct, 
was  pure,  manly,  strong,  brave,  gentle,  tender,  loving.  True 


A  NOBLE  LIFE  91 

to  his  generation,  true  to  his  kind,  true  to  his  country,  true  to 
his  God,  true  counsellor,  true  friend,  true  lover,  true  husband, 
true  father,  what  more  can  be  said  ?  To  the  eager  friend- 
less youth  I  point  the  example  of  Paschal's  early  life.  To 
the  timid,  doubting,  hesitating  citizen  in  hours  of  peril  and 
darkness,  I  offer  the  example  of  his  riper  years.  To  the 
lawyer,  old  or  young,  his  whole  career.  His  life  was  brave, 
blameless.  His  country  had  his  best  exertions.  He  leaves 
his  name  and  memory  to  his  children,  the  wealth  of  his 
example,  the  lesson  of  his  life,  to  all  our  children." 

After  my  dear  father  was  buried  in  the  Rock  Creek 
Cemetery  that  I  loved  so  well,  Washington  lost  its  charm  for 
me,  and  only  of  late  years  has  my  heart  turned  back  to  it 
again. 


CHAPTER     XVIII 

THE  JOY  OF  GIVING 

Many  charities  are  but  dreams. 

Now  and  then  a  blessed  dream  comes  true — a  motherless  child  finds 
a  mother  ;  or  a  home  is  built  for  the  homeless. 

WHAT  a  beaiitiful  everlasting  monument  Mr  Corcoran 
has  given  to  the  memory  of  his  wife  in  the  Louise 
Home  in  Washington.  Those  poor  ladies  of 
genteel  lineage  and  former  grandeur,  who  are  unfitted  to 
work,  and  too  proud  to  beg,  are  through  his  hospitality 
rendered  for  the  remainder  of  their  lives  free  from  care.  If 
Heaven  ever  gives  me  riches,  my  charities  are  all  mapped  out. 
The  first  would  be  for  governesses,  those  self-sacrificing 
beings,  who  have  been  obliged  to  crush  out  individuality,  and 
subordinate  themselves  all  their  lives  to  other  people.  Two 
thousand  pounds  annually,  would  support  ten  worthy  women. 
To  each  would  be  given  her  own  little  income,  one  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  to  spend  as  she  liked.  There  would  be  no 
house  with  rules  and  regulations,  but  freedom  at  last — and 
there  is  nothing  so  sweet  in  the  whole  world  as  freedom. 
And  for  men,  I  should  establish,  in  my  father's  dear  name,  a 
Law  School  with  a  simple  home  attached,  where  poor  young 
men  could  become  first-class  lawyers,  with  a  small  sum  of 
money  at  the  end  to  carry  them  to  that  big-hearted  West  in 
America  whose  wide  arms  are  encouragingly  opened  to  the 
stranger  and  new-comer. 

My  father,  who  was  a  sentimentalist,  used  to  say  that  his 
charity  would  be  a  bank  of  honour,  where  industrious  young 
men  of  twenty-one  could  borrow  money  to  start  themselves 
in  married  life.  He  was  a  firm  believer  in  marriage,  and 
above  all  in  early  marriages.  He  said  if  wild  oats  must  be 

sown,  it  was  better  after  the  children  were  born,  for  then  they 

92 


THE  JOY  OF  GIVING  93 

would  be  healthy,  and  a  comfort  to  the  mother.  But  he  was 
always  sanguine  that  an  early  marriage  would  deprive  a 
man  of  his  oatsing  appetite. 

The  happiest  and  most  satisfactory  charity,  of  course,  is 
that  which  can  be  personally  superintended.  I  know  of  such 
a  one.  When  last  in  New  York  I  met  Mr  and  Mrs  Frank 
Deems.  They  were  married  when  he  was  nineteen  and  she 
was  fifteen,  and  they  just  happened  to  be  two  minds  with  but 
a  single  thought — that  of  benefitting  less  fortunate  humanity 
than  themselves.  I  should  like  to  change  their  names  from 
Deems  to  Greatheart — it  would  suit  them  better.  Mr  Deems 
is  a  genius  in  the  railway  line,  receiving  for  his  services  a  big 
salary — and  this  is  part  of  the  way  in  which  he  so  nobly 
spends  it.  He  selects  twelve  poor  boys  of  ability  and  in- 
vention, and  educates  them  in  whatever  bent  of  life  seems  to 
promise  success.  And  he  has  adopted  five  others — one  of 
them,  a  poor  delicate  little  child,  had  the  offer  of  another 
home  after  he  had  been  mothered  by  Mrs  Deems  for  a  few 
weeks,  and  when  she  told  him  he  was  going  away  to  a 
nice  new  mother  and  father  she  noticed  the  child  seemed 
intensely  quiet,  and  said  nothing.  A  little  later  she  found 
him  sobbing  convulsively  in  a  room  by  himself,  and  when 
she  asked  him  what  was  the  matter  he  proudly  replied, 
"  Nothing."  And  then  he  lost  control  of  his  little  breaking 
heart,  and  said,  "  I  don't  want  a  new  mother — I  want  you  for 
my  mother  always,"  and  he  caught  her  closely  around  her 
neck  and  cried  ;  and  she  cried,  and  of  course  he  stayed,  and 
is  now,  after  many  years,  a  model,  appreciative,  and  devoted 
son.  They  are  not  childless  people ;  their  only  son,  a 
popular  and  successful  doctor,  sympathizes  with  his  father's 
philanthropic  work. 

We  crossed  in  the  "  Cedric"  together,  and  I  never  saw  the 
popularity  of  any  two  people  made  so  manifest  as  that  of  the 
Greathearts.  Their  two  state  rooms  were  lined  with  roses. 
Roses  red,  and  roses  white,  roses  pink,  and  roses  yellow,  gave 
forth  each  their  different  fragrance,  and  jostled  and  crowded 
each  other  in  myriads.  The  floors  were  covered  with  large 
and  small  baskets  of  fruit ;  and  here  let  me  thank  Mr  Green 


94  I  MYSELF 

and  Mr  Robinson,  as  their  fruit  and  flowers  were  transferred 
to  my  state  rooms,  cards  and  all.  I  hope  the  son  by  choice 
had  remembered  his  mother,  for  while  she  was  in  London  we 
went  together  and  selected  a  beautiful  carved  gold  ruby-set 
ring  for  him.  It  was  her  first  visit  to  England,  and  yet  this 
dear  devoted  Madame  Greatheart,  instead  of  seeing  London 
as  she  wished  to  do,  spent  the  major  portion  of  her  time  in 
shopping  for  her  children,  and  for  her  troop  of  friends,  buying 
for  each  and  all  some  lovely  souvenir.  She  is  good  to  look  at, 
this  generous  lady :  her  healthy,  handsome  exterior,  her  sweet 
eyes,  and  childlike  smile,  are  indications  of  her  warm  and 
tender  heart.  Like  every  natural  woman,  she  loves  pretty 
clothes,  jewels,  laces,  feathers  and  furbelows,  but  she  can 
always  deny  herself  and  put  the  vanities  aside  to  give  to 
others. 

Mr  Greatheart  has  a  large  library  of  scrap  books  compiled 
by  himself.  We  talked  and  talked  on  the  voyage,  and  when 
we  were  for  the  moment  silent,  Madame  Greatheart  would 
suggest  poems  of  his  liking  to  him,  and  with  his  splendid 
memory,  as  robust  as  his  physique,  he  amused  us  by  the 
hour.  Does  he  remember,  I  wonder,  how  I  wept  over  : 

She  was  only  a  pup  when  I  first  picked  her  up, 

One  night  in  this  town  in  a  storm  ; 
But  I  mind  that  she  cried  like  the  nor'-easter  sighed, 

From  my  breast  which  was  ragged  but  warm. 

I'd  been  round  the  world,  been  battered  and  swirled, 

In  camps  and  in  ships  from  a  boy  ; 
But  not  one  ever  cared  how  my  barque  ever  fared 

When  tossed  in  the  storm  like  a  toy. 

I  had  no  one  to  love — all  I  loved  were  above — 

When  I  heard  Lizy  bark  in  the  gale. 
So  I  stooped  and  picked  up  the  forsook  little  pup, 

And  for  port  with  the  outcast  set  sail. 

'Twere  a  long  time  ago — ten  or  twelve  year  or  so — 

But  we've  loved  and  divided  our  hoard, 
And  she's  been  faithful  as  I,  mate,  will  be  by  and  bye, 

If  I'm  but  took  up  by  the  Lord. 


THE  JOY  OF  GIVING  95 

When  I  come  to  his  gate  some  wild  night  pretty  late, 

A  castout  who  nobody  knows, 
P'raps  he'll  take  me  up,  as  I  did  the  pup — 

Now,  maty,  what  do  you  suppose  ? 

Ah,  that  kind  o'  cheers  and  drives  out  the  fears 

I've  had  since  the  pup  left  my  side. 
She  went  out  the  same  way  we  will  all  go  some  day — 

She  just  licked  my  hand,  then  she  died. 

She  were  outcast,  but  true,  and  the  Lord  knows  it  too, 

She  deserves  all  up  there  we  can  win. 
Now,  if  me  and  the  pup  at  his  gate,  mate,  fetch  up, 

Do  you  think,  maty,  he'll  take  us  in  ? 

Rose  Stahl  is  a  valued  friend  of  the  Greathearts.  They  have 
been  to  all  her  important  first  nights — twenty-nine  "  Chorus 
Ladies  "  in  all — and  could  not  of  course  leave  out  London, 
so  they  just  packed,  and  came  across  with  her  in  the  "  Cedric." 
She,  too,  belongs  to  the  Greatheart  family  by  virtue  of  wisdom, 
modesty  and  sympathy.  It  was  my  privilege,  as  the  darkies 
say,  "  to  hope  her  up,"  for  she  was  very  doubtful  and  fearful 
of  a  London  audience,  and  that  queer  public  who  have  refused 
so  many  American  successes,  but  I  felt  that  the  "  Chorus 
Lady  "  could  not  fail  to  appeal  to  and  delight  all  English 
people,  and  I  boldly  prophesied  this  again  and  again  to  Rose 
Stahl,  and  my  prophesy  came  true. 

I  am  an  American  ever  and  always,  in  spite  of  my  dear  love 
for  England,  and  the  first  time  I  saw  Rose  Stahl  in  "  The 
Chorus  Lady  "  was  really  a  revelation  to  me,  and  also  one  of 
the  happiest  nights  of  my  life.  In  the  first  place  I  had  not 
been  home  in  fifteen  years,  and  it  was  hot,  and  I  love  the  heat, 
so  I  wore  a  thin  grey  muslin,  and  I  love  grey.  Then  I  dined 
with  the  Pages  (the  Thomas  Nelsons)  and  I  love  the  Pages,  and 
they  gave  me  a  real  American  dinner — fried  chicken,  green 
corn,  soft  shell  crabs,  water  melon  and  ice  cream — and  Charley 
Bryan  of  my  youth,  now  the  Hon.  C.  F.  Bryan,  Minister 
to  Belgium  and  an  agreeable  diplomatist,  whom  I  had  not 
seen  since  I  danced  with  him  in  my  girlhood,  in  his  beautiful 
mother's  house  in  Washington — she  was  tall,  pensive-looking, 


96  I  MYSELF 

wore  long  curls  at  either  side  of  her  face,  black  velvet, 
old  lace,  and  fine  jewels — joined  us  afterwards,  and  we 
four  went  to  the  theatre  to  see  Rose  Stahl,  who  was 
playing  her  great  success  of  "  The  Chorus  Lady."  I  had 
never  even  heard  of  her,  or  the  play,  but  from  the  moment 
she  appeared  her  incisive  individuality  gripped  me,  and  she 
was  a  revelation  of  naturalness,  and  the  essence  of  humour. 
The  modern  American  slang  was  delightful  to  my  ear, 
and  I  understood  it  by  instinct.  What  a  description 
Patricia  O'Brian  gives  of  the  Chorus  Girl's  smile  when  she 
is  tired  and  downhearted  !  "  It's  the  smile  that's  hard. 
Fancy  standing  with  your  foot  pointing  a  quarter  past  six 
and  looking  like  the  cat  that's  swallowed  the  canary  !  " 
I've  very  often  seen  that  galvanized  smile  on  the  lips  of  sad 
gay  women,  at  the  jolly  Savoy  Hotel  suppers,  and  other  de- 
pressing gay  places.  Rose  Stahl  with  her  cameo-like  features 
looks  like  a  younger  Sarah  Bernhardt,  and  she  has,  like  her,  a 
beautiful  golden  voice — full,  resonant,  capable  of  many 
variations,  plaintive,  gay,  humorous,  scornful,  womanly,  or 
tender,  and  perfectly  produced  from  a  strong  throat.  She  is 
primarily  an  intellectual  actress,  and  one  of  decided  origin- 
ality. Her  comedy,  like  all  true  comedy,  has  tears  at  close 
call.  When  I  laughed  the  tears  fell  before  I  had  finished.  I 
followed  her  every  mood  and  movement,  in  perfect  under- 
standing, and  I  sighed  with  regret  when  the  curtain  came 
down,  and  shut  beloved  Patricia  O'Brien  from  my  sight. 
And  I  might  have  thought  my  admiration  exaggerated  owing 
to  the  fortunate  home  coming,  and  the  atmosphere  surround- 
ing me  that  particular  night,  but  the  next  night  I  went  with 
another  friend,  good-looking,  black-visaged  John  Savage,  and 
it  was  possible  for  me  to  regard  the  play  less,  and  Rose  Stahl 
more,  and  she  impressed  me  as  a  far  greater  actress  than  I 
had  at  first  thought  her.  When  the  other  characters  spoke — 
Dan  Mallory,  Crawford,  and  her  sister  Norah — she  listened  as 
intently,  and  with  as  swiftly  changing  an  expression  as  if 
it  was  reality  and  not  make-believe.  There  was  no  smallest 
detail  slurred  or  wanting,  and  the  whole  performance 
was  that  of  a  great  character  study  by  an  inspired  but 


THE  JOY  OF  GIVING  97 

careful  and  sincere  artist.  It  was  my  intention  to 
write  and  say  how  her  performance  had  moved  me,  but 
— procrastination — the  impulse  passed,  and  only  after  two 
years  we  became  acquainted,  and  the  woman  impressed 
me  even  more  than  the  artist.  I  have  never  known  anyone 
possessing  greater  individuality  or  one  more  free  from  the 
weaknesses  of  the  ordinary  woman  than  Rose  Stahl.  She  is 
surprisingly  free  from  vanity — she  says  laughingly,  "  My 
mother  says  Rose  has  good  teeth  and  a  good  disposition,  but 
she  isn't  pretty."  And  she  is  even  without  vanity  of  her 
artistry,  or  of  her  wit,  which  is  keen  and  trenchant — or  of  her 
strong  common-sense,  which  is  so  rare.  And  with  all  her 
brilliant  success  she  must  have  very  many  sad  moments,  for 
her  searching  eyes  look  right  through  sham,  falseness,  pre- 
tension, and  deceit ;  she  sees  life  as  it  is,  and  people  as  they 
are — not  always  a  pleasant  sight  by  any  means.  She  herself 
is  sincere,  unpretentious,  straightforward,  and  courageous, 
and  yet  the  most  feminine  of  women.  Tenderly  attached  to 
her  family,  fond  of  children  and  flowers,  grateful  for  affection 
and  intuitive  to  a  painful  degree.  Her  father  is  a  journalist, 
and  when  she  was  a  child  he  was  poor  and  life  was  a  struggle 
with  a  big  family  to  bring  up  and  educate,  and  she  noticed 
when  one  of  the  children  asked  for  a  new  pair  of  shoes  his 
already  careworn  face  looked  more  anxious,  so  she  resolved 
to  tread  lightly  on  her  shoes  that  they  might  last  a  long, 
long  time.  Now  Fortune  showers  gold  upon  her,  and  she 
can  buy  a  new  pair  of  shoes  every  day  if  she  likes,  but  she 
treads  lightly  still,  for  fear  of  stepping  on  the  susceptibilities 
of  those  who  are  easily  hurt.  She  has  learned  the  most 
difficult  lesson  of  life  for  a  woman — her  eyes  penetrate  to  the 
root  of  evil,  and  seeing,  she  understands  and  forgives.  She 
leads  from  choice  "  the  simple  life,"  without  falling  from 
grace — the  life  which  is  so  much  advocated  and  so  little 
followed.  She  eats  no  meat  at  all,  and  sparingly  of  other 
food,  drinks  nothing  but  water,  is  reasonable  and  economical 
in  her  dress,  and  sleeps  the  sleep  of  the  just.  She  desires  no 
possessions  except  plenty  of  books,  for  she  is  a  constant, 
omnivorous  and  appreciative  reader.  She  never  goes  out 


98  I  MYSELF 

to  suppers  or  dinners,  and  has  no  desire  to  be  in  evidence,  or 
for  notoriety.  Her  success  has  not  been  attained  by  adver- 
tisement, but  by  legitimate  means — the  hardest,  most  pains- 
taking and  intellectual  work.  She  wrote  me  in  answer  to  a 
letter  reproaching  her  for  forgetfulness  : 

"  No,  dear,  dear  and  beautiful  Mascotte,  I  am  not  fickle — 
only  worn  out  and  oh,  so  tired  !  I  am  sailing  to-morrow 
on  our  '  Cedric '  and  am  hoping  that  the  trip  may  bring  me 
some  strength  and  rest.  How  I  wish  I  might  have  gone  to 
Italy  where  you  are  and  have  a  few  quiet,  restful  weeks  with 
you.  But  I  open  in  Boston  in  the  middle  of  August  and 
that  is  why  I  must  hurry  away. 

"  As  for  the  London  season,  I  can  only  say  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul,  '  God  bless  them — they  have  been  far  better 
to  me  than  I  had  ever  dared  to  dream  they  might  be  !  '  And 
I  shall  be  waiting  the  opportunity  to  come  back  again. 

"  There  is  much  I  would  like  to  say  to  you — but  I  hope 
that  we  will  meet  soon.  For  your  goodness  to  me  I  shall 
always  have  an  unbounded  gratitude — and  quite  apart 
from  all  your  goodness  to  me,  I  love  you  very,  very  much. — 
Auf  Wiedersehn,  ROSE  " 

And  as  she  belongs  in  a  measure  to  England  for  their 
appreciation  of  her  and  will  not  rest  until  she  returns  to 
reap  fresh  laurels,  I  give  this  letter,  which  was  meant  for 
no  eyes  but  mine,  and  I  say  to  her,  not  "  Auf  Wiedersehn," 
but  "  Auf  baldiges  Wiedersehn." 


CHAPTER   XIX 

AN  UNQUIET  GHOST 

Let  each  man  wheel  with  steady  sway 
Round  the  task  that  rules  the  day, 

And  do  his  best.  GOETHE 

UNTIL  we  lose  them  we  never  realize  the  stupendous 
force  of  youth,  health  and  hope.     When  I  went  to 
New  York  to  live — that  great  cormorant  of  a  city 
of  noise,  and  din,  and  greed,  and  hardness,  and  struggle — 
I  had  only  fifty  dollars  in  all  the  world,  my  little  child 
dependent  upon  me,  and  I  do  not  suppose  any  creature  on 
earth  was  less  equipped  for  a  remorseless  fight  with  the 
world  than  myself. 

In  the  first  place,  I  was  born  and  brought  up  in  the  South. 
All  my  ancestors  were  Southern  people,  and  their  women 
for  generations  had  been  protected,  considered  and  loved, 
and  had  never  had  to  battle  for  themselves.  And  Nature 
is  meagre  (unless  to  the  Napoleons,  Shakespeares,  and 
Gladstones,  and  those  she  lavishly  endows)  :  in  giving  us  one 
thing  she  takes  away  another.  I  have  what  a  friend  of  mine 
calls  "  merciless  logic,"  and  for  a  woman  my  reasoning 
powers  are  well  developed,  but  I  have  no  intuitive  faculty 
whatever.  I  know  nothing  about  human  nature,  except  by 
a  sequence  of  events,  and  a  logical  deduction.  My  first 
impulse  is  to  like  everybody  that  I  meet ;  I  have  no  instinct 
of  protecting  myself  from  men  or  women  who  are  either 
false  or  untrustworthy.  My  judgment  of  people  is  of  the 
worst.  But  in  spite  of  my  many  disillusionments  and  dis- 
appointments in  human  nature,  my  inexhaustible  well  of 

99 


ioo  I  MYSELF 

credulity  and  trustfulness  can  always  be  drawn  upon,  and 
happily  I  rebound  after  each  deception. 

New  York,  of  all  places,  with  its  cosmopolitan  population 
and  its  heartlessness,  is  the  last  place  for  an  unprotected 
woman  of  my  temperament,  and  yet  I  had  little  to  complain 
of  at  that  period  of  my  life,  for  I  was  able  to  make  warm  and 
valued  friends  there. 

In  the  beginning  I  hoped  to  keep  my  little  son,  Toodie, 
with  me,  and  we  went  to  live  in  a  lodging-house  in  I4th 
Street.  I  paid  four  dollars  a  week  for  a  large  bedroom, 
and  it  served  also  as  a  sitting-room  ;  we  went  across  the 
street  to  a  cheap  boarding-house  for  our  meals  ;  and  doing 
a  little  newspaper  work  and  reading  plays  for  A.  M.  Palmer 
just  kept  body  and  soul  together,  but  I  was  very  young,  and 
hope  loomed  large  before  me. 

The  lodging-house  was  well  furnished,  exquisitely  clean, 
and  I  was  quite  comfortable  there,  when  something 
mysterious  occurred  which  necessitated  my  finding  other 
rooms. 

On  going  one  afternoon  to  see  a  friend  of  mine  who  lived 
a  few  doors  away — a  flower  painter — she  said  to  me  :  "  You 
have  had  a  suicide  in  your  house,  haven't  you  ?  " 

Greatly  surprised,  I  said,  "  No,  I'm  sure  not — I  have  heard 
nothing  of  it." 

But  she  insisted  that  she  had  read  a  full  account  of  it  in 
the  papers,  and  when  I  went  home  I  asked  the  housemaid 
if  she  knew  anything  about  it.  She  turned  red  and  said, 
Yes, — that  a  nephew  of  Jefferson  Davis  had  shot  himself  a 
week  before.  I  then  knew  that  he  had  occupied  the  room 
next  to  mine.  He  was  very  unfortunate  in  business,  and 
it  seemed  that  for  weeks  he  had  been  making  up  his  mind 
to  do  the  deed,  for  the  housemaid  told  me  that  sometimes 
she  had  found  the  pistol  on  the  mantelpiece,  sometimes  on 
the  washing-stand,  and  sometimes  on  the  dressing-table — 
as  if  he  had  picked  it  up  and  re-considered  his  dire  resolution 
and  had  gone  on  fighting  bitter  Fate  a  little  longer. 

He,  like  myself,  took  his  meals  outside,  and  as  he  fre- 
quently went  away  a  few  days  on  business,  when  his  door 


AN  UNQUIET  GHOST  101 

was  locked,  nothing  was  thought  of  it,  and  when  the  suicide 
was  discovered  he  had  been  dead  four  or  five  days — and, 
poor  soul,  unselfish  to  the  last,  he  had  taken  his  overcoat 
and  put  it  under  his  head,  doubled  it  up  as  a  pillow,  and 
managed  in  taking  his  life  not  to  make  the  smallest  bloodstain 
on  the  bed  or  the  carpet. 

I  remembered  that  I  had  often  seen  a  sad,  cavernous-eyed 
man  going  up  and  down  the  stairs,  and  I  had  more  than  once 
thought  I  would  speak  to  him,  he  looked  so  melancholy 
and  despairing,  but  the  convention  of  life  kept  me  from 
it — I  was  a  young  widow,  and  was  then  trying  to  con- 
sider my  dignity — but  I  have  always  regretted  not  having 
put  out  a  hand  of  fellowship  and  of  sympathy  to  that  pursued 
and  lonely  creature.  Convention  is  after  all  a  most  hateful 
and  unnecessary  and  sometimes  cruel  thing.  The  older  I 
grow  and  the  more  I  see  of  life,  the  less  sympathy  I  have 
with  it. 

There  is  neither  fear  nor  superstition  in  my  composition, 
and  as  I  was  getting  a  little  more  work  I  sent  for  the  landlord 
and  told  him  that  I  would  take  the  suicide's  room  as  my 
bedroom  and  turn  my  bedroom  into  a  sitting-room.  The 
next  day  this  arrangement  was  made. 

The  first  night  I  slept  in  the  room  I  was  awakened  by  a 
long  sighing  groan  which  seemed  to  be  just  at  the  side  of 
my  bed.  Curiously  enough  I  was  not  in  the  least  afraid — 
I  only  hoped  the  noise  would  continue  so  that  I  might  rouse 
the  servants  and  the  landlord  and  his  wife,  and  have  them 
listen  to  this  strange  portent,  and  understand  that  it  was  not 
my  imagination.  The  groans,  however,  continued,  and  I 
awoke  the  two  housemaids  and  a  young  army  officer  who 
lodged  on  the  same  floor,  and  asked  him  to  go  downstairs 
and  request  the  landlord  and  his  wife  to  come  up  to  my 
room.  He  did,  and  the  landlord  decided  that  it  was  either 
a  chimney-pot  out  of  order  whirling  round  and  round,  and 
making  an  unearthly  noise,  or  that  next  door  the  doctor,  who 
was  a  specialist  for  nervous  diseases,  had  a  patient  who  was 
either  very  ill  and  suffering,  or  else  a  madman. 

The  groans  never  ceased,  so  the  mattress  was  dragged  off 


102  I  MYSELF 

the  bed  and  placed  on  the  floor  of  my  sitting-room,  and 
towards  morning  I  dropped  into  a  worried  sleep. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  I  went  to  see  the  doctor  and 
asked  him  if  he  had  any  patients.  He  said  that  no  one  lived 
on  the  fourth  floor  of  his  house  at  all,  as  his  family  was  very 
small,  consisting  only  of  himself  and  his  wife,  who  occupied 
the  second  floor,  and  the  servants  had  their  bedrooms  on 
the  third  floor. 

During  the  day  we  had  a  man  to  come  and  look  at  the 
chimney-pots,  but  they  were  all  in  excellent  order,  so  that 
night  I  tried  sleeping  in  the  room  again.  About  twelve 
o'clock  the  groans  re-commenced,  and  the  same  thing 
happened  the  following  night.  Then  I  determined  to  move. 
The  landlord  was  exceedingly  angry — he  said  that  I  had 
taken  the  rooms  for  the  winter,  and  threatened  to  sue  me 
for  the  rent,  but  I  did  move,  and  in  a  blinding  snow  storm 
at  that.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  believe  in  supernatural 
phenomena  or  not — I  only  relate  what  happened  as  an  un- 
pleasant, inconvenient  and  inexplicable  experience. 

Never  in  my  life  have  I  seen  a  harder  woman  than  the 
woman  who  kept  this  lodging-house.  The  unfortunate 
being  who  committed  suicide  had  lived  in  her  house  five  or 
six  years,  and  her  only  thought  was,  that  he  should  have 
drowned  himself  in  the  East  River,  or  gone  to  a  hotel  to 
blow  his  brains  out.  And  it  seems  to  me  of  all  lonely  and 
heart-breaking  places  in  the  world,  without  friends,  New 
York  is  the  loneliest  and  the  most  relentless. 

My  little  son  seemed  to  realize  my  position  at  this  time, 
although  I  was  always  gay  before  him,  and  surely  no  mother 
ever  had  a  more  devoted  or  a  kinder  protector.  I  used 
sometimes  to  sit  up  writing  until  two  and  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  when  I  crept  into  bed,  cold  and  tired,  he 
never  failed  to  awake  and  put  his  thin  little  arm  under  my 
neck  and  say  to  me,  "  Poor  girl — poor  girl !  You  must  be 
so  tired."  He  made  friends  very  readily,  and  always  had 
plenty  of  toys  and  plenty  of  amusement,  but  I  think  he  felt 
the  seriousness  of  life,  nevertheless. 

We   used   very   often    to    go    to    Philadelphia    and    to 


AN  UNQUIET  GHOST  103 

Baltimore  to  visit  friends  there,  and  I  remember  admonish- 
ing him  not  to  talk  to  people  in  the  cars,  as  frequently  it  was 
only  a  subterfuge  for  some  one  to  bore  me  with  conversation, 
and  especially  he  was  to  recollect  never  to  answer  any 
questions,  no  matter  what  they  were.  One  day  going  to 
Baltimore  I  noticed  a  man  who  had  been  talking  to  the 
child  observing  me  with  a  most  peculiar  expression.  Not 
impertinent,  but  certainly  extremely  curious,  and  rather 
amused.  When  I  got  out  of  the  train  I  said,  "  Toodie, 
did  that  man  ask  you  any  questions  ?  " 

He  said,  "  Yes,  he  did,  but  I  remembered  what  you  told 
me  and  I  didn't  answer  him." 

I  said,  "  What  did  he  ask  you  ?  " 

He  said,  "  He  asked  me  if  you  were  my  mother,  and  I  told 
him  there  were  reasons  why  I  couldn't  tell  him." 

I  have  often  wondered  what  description  the  man  himself 
gave  of  the  interview. 

After  a  few  months,  it  became  plain  that  a  boarding-house 
was  no  place  to  bring  up  a  child,  and  so  my  one  friend  and 
sweetheart  had  to  go  away  to  school.  It  was  a  perfectly 
heart-breaking  parting,  both  for  him  and  for  me.  I  took  him 
down  to  the  nuns  in  Orange,  New  Jersey,  and  left  him  with 
the  heaviest  heart  in  the  world,  and  I  could  only  stand  it 
two  days  in  New  York  without  going  to  see  him  again.  I 
asked  him  how  he  liked  it,  and  he  said  it  was  dreadful,  and 
I  said,  "  Well,  there  are  lots  of  boys  here  who  have  left  their 
mothers,"  and  his  answer  was,  "  Yes,  they  have,  but  I  have 
been  talking  to  them  and  they  are  not  so  used  to  their 
mothers  and  to  their  mother's  friends,  as  I  am  to  you.  I  am 
so  used  to  you  that  I  don't  think  I  can  stay  here  without 
running  away." 

This  was  in  the  early  spring,  and  in  the  summer  the  nuns 
let  me  come  as  a  boarder,  so  that  I  could  see  him  every  day. 


CHAPTER   XX 

MY  BELOVED  MARY 

"  Oh,  those  happy  days,  when  we  were  miserable  !  " 

JUSTIN  MCCARTHY 

JUST  before  I  went  down  to  the  convent  Dr  Mallory 
came  to  see  me  and  asked  if  I  knew  any  place 
where  a  lady  could  go  who  was  in  the  very  deepest 
grief,  and  I  recommended  the  convent  as  quiet  and  prettily 
situated,  and  the  nuns  as  being  exceedingly  sympathetic  and 
kind.  I  asked  what  the  lady's  grief  was.  He  said,  "  Don't 
laugh"  —  and  then  he  told  me  hesitatingly  that  she  had 
lost  a  Pekinese  Spaniel.  I  love  animals  as  much  as  anybody 
in  the  world,  but  hard  work  seems  to  give  life  its  true  per- 
spective, and  I  must  say  that,  in  spite  of  his  admonition,  I 
did  laugh  at  her  irreconcilable  grief. 

The  lady  went  down  to  the  convent  a  day  or  two  in  ad- 
vance of  myself.  I  discovered  that  she  was  one  of  the 
friends  of  my  girlhood,  and  the  wife  of  a  captain  in  the  navy, 
now  a  well-known  admiral.  She  was  dressed  in  deep  mourn- 
ing— a  cashmere  heavily  trimmed  in  crepe,  and  a  cr6pe  hat 
with  a  drooping  veil.  The  dog  during  its  illness  had  one  of 
the  best  physicians  in  New  York  and  two  trained  nurses, 
and  after  its  death  had  been  laid  to  rest  under  a  carved 
marble  headstone  reciting  its  virtues.  The  lady  had  told 
an  innocent  sister  that  her  grief  was  for  a  child — a  Japanese 
baby  whom  she  had  adopted.  There  is  always  something 
of  the  eternal  child  in  every  nun,  and  this  one  was  both 
sympathetic  and  curious.  She  asked  the  lady  the  baby's 
age,  and  whether  it  was  a  boy  or  a  girl.  The  grief-stricken 


MY  BELOVED  MARY  105 

mere  adoptive  said  it  was  a  girl,  and  when  the  sister  asked 
her  if  it  had  been  baptized  and  she  said  "  No,"  the  nun  was 
shocked  and  grieved  to  think  the  adopted  child  would  not 
meet  its  mother  in  heaven. 

The  sister  repeated  this  conversation  to  me,  and  said, 
"It  is  such  a  curious  thing  that  if  she  had  wanted 
to  adopt  an  infant  she  should  have  adopted  a  yellow 
Japanese  baby,  and  of  course  her  grief  is  mingled 
with  a  terrible  remorse  that  she  neglected  the  child's 
baptism." 

I  said,  "  Don't  you  worry  about  that  baby.  It  was  a 
monster  with  a  black  snub  nose,  saucer  eyes,  and  covered 
all  over  with  black  and  white  hair." 

The  sister  turned  pale  with  horror  and  said,  "  How  shock- 
ing !  She  adopted  a  hairy  monster !  " 

'  Yes,"  I  said,  "  she  did,  and,  as  you  know,  loved  it 
devotedly." 

The  sister  tapped  her  forehead  significantly,  and  after 
this  the  convent  was  quite  resigned  to  the  death  of  the  child, 
and  I  never  disclosed  anything  further.  The  poor  lady  is 
dead  long  ago,  and  I  hope  buried,  as  she  wished  to  be,  by 
her  Japanese  darling. 

In  the  autumn  I  returned  to  New  York  and  joined  forces 
with  a  friend  from  Virginia,  and  we  went  to  live  in  a  large 
boarding-house  which  was  comparatively  comfortable.  At 
any  rate  we  had  each  other,  and  I  never  knew  a  better  friend 
than  Mary  Agnew.  She  has  the  loyalty  of  a  man  combined 
with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman,  and  an  unchangeableness 
and  intensity  of  affection  that  I  have  never  seen  equalled. 
It  is  hard  for  us  with  our  finite  natures  to  understand  every- 
thing, but  I  have  no  thought  in  my  mind,  no  high  aspiration, 
no  sin,  or  sorrow,  or  joy,  or  hope,  that  my  friend  is  not 
capable  of  understanding,  and,  if  necessary,  of  forgiving. 
It  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  feel  there  is  one  being  in  the  world 
from  whom  you  need  have  no  slightest  secret,  and  that 
whatever  you  have  said  or  done  in  your  life  will  not  lessen 
the  love  which  has  been  given  to  you  in  the  fulness  and 
generosity  of  a  truly  noble  soul — and  neither  years  of  separa- 


106  I  MYSELF 

tion  nor  of  divided  interests  have  made  the  least  difference 
in  our  friendship. 

We  were  truly  in  those  days  a  mine  of  help  and  strength 
to  each  other.  I  always  dressed  in  mourning — not  that  I 
was  mourning  always,  but  black  was  the  cheapest  and  the 
easiest  dress,  and  in  a  sort  of  costume  designed  by  myself, 
which  was  something  between  that  of  a  widow  and  a  nurse. 
It  consisted  of  a  perfectly  plain  black  skirt  and  bodice,  white 
linen  collar  and  cuffs,  a  small  black  close  fitting  bonnet,  and 
a  long  heavy  black  cloak.  In  this  way  even  with  my  small 
means  I  was  enabled  to  look  neat  and  clean,  and  for  years, 
with  all  my  intense  love  of  pretty  things,  I  never  went  in  a 
shop  or  scarcely  looked  in  a  shop  window. 

Mary,  with  her  generous,  handsome  presence,  abundance 
of  hair  and  robust  health,  had  rather  the  flamboyant  taste 
of  the  South  in  dress,  and  I  remember  one  winter  she  econo- 
mized and  bought  a  most  terrible  bonnet.  The  whole  of  it 
was  made  of  huge  pearl  beads,  and  there  were  two  or  three 
large  white  feathers  nodding  on  the  top.  I  really  did  feel 
our  friendship  tremble  in  the  balance  with  those  waving 
feathers,  and  finally  I  had  to  speak  my  mind,  but  in  vain. 
Mary's  heart  had  gone  out  to  that  bonnet,  and  it  was  really 
dearer  than  anything  in  the  world  to  her  except  myself. 
About  this  time  the  lady  who  kept  the  boarding-house  had 
made  enough  money  to  retire,  and  it  was  necessary  for  us 
to  find  new  quarters.  Mary  was  occupied  all  day  down 
town  at  the  post-office  and  left  the  moving  to  me,  and  one 
or  two  old  friends  who  used  to  take  us  to  the  theatre  and 
came  very  often  to  see  us  suggested  my  managing  to  lose 
that  pearl  bonnet  of  Mary's  in  the  moving.  "  Oh,  I  wouldn't 
dare,"  I  said — but  somehow  in  spite  of  the  care  that  I  really  did 
give,  that  bonnet  was  lost.  Mary  always  suspected  me.  She 
said,  "  Elizabeth,  you  know  you  didn't  like  that  bonnet,  and 
I  have  noticed  that  things  of  mine  you  particularly  dislike 
disappear.  Now  why  ?  You  always  lay  it  to  a  dishonest 
chambermaid,  but  why  should  people  who  are  dishonest 
take  my  things  that  you  set  your  face  against  ?  "  I  acknow- 
ledged the  logic  of  this  argument,  but  nevertheless  my  con- 


MY  BELOVED  MARY  107 

science  was  as  clear  as  crystal  about  that  pearl  bonnet.  I 
have  often  wondered  at  its  end.  Luckily  Mary  was  so  hand- 
some that  it  was  impossible  for  her  really  to  spoil  her  noble 
appearance,  but  she  did  give  its  power  of  endurance  continual 
tests.  Now  she  has  had  so  much  sorrow  and  such  heart- 
breaks that  all  the  gay,  youthful,  gorgeous  taste  is  gone, 
and  she  dresses  as  quietly  as  a  Quaker.  Oh,  dear  me,  as 
Justin  M'Carthy  says,  "  those  happy,  happy  days  when  we 
were  miserable  !  "  for  we  had  youth,  and  hope,  and  health, 
and  ambition,  and  dreams  that  never  came  true. 

Desultory  journalistic  work  in  New  York  is  perfectly 
terrible,  and  I  was  kept  continually  on  the  rack,  and  finally 
for  a  time  I  could  get  absolutely  nothing  to  do.  I  had 
knocked  figure lively  and  literally  at  the  door  of  every 
editor's  sanctum  in  New  York,  and  I  was  in  utter  despair, 
until  poor  David  brought  me  luck. 

Mary  had  a  cousin  whom  she  called  "  David  "  on  account 
of  his  tenderness  and  his  charm,  for  that  was  not  his  real 
name,  and  on  telling  him  how  worried  I  was  he  wrote  me  a 
letter  which  made  me  cry  my  heart  out,  and  sent  me  a  cheque 
for  five  hundred  dollars.  I  could  only  return  it,  and  tell  him 
that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  accept  it  even  as  a  loan 
because  I  saw  no  prospect  of  paying  it  back.  I  scarcely 
knew  him.  It  was  such  a  wonderfully  kind  thing  to 
do ;  and  I  got  work  that  very  day.  Ah  me,  what  a 
tragic  death  he  met  with  afterwards !  His  wife  had 
been  an  invalid  for  some  years,  never  leaving  her  room 
or  her  couch,  and  he  was  young — not  more  than  thirty- 
two  or  thirty-three — full  of  vitality  and  a  love  of  pleasure. 
One  night  after  a  supper  party  he  met  a  handsome  woman 
who  belonged  to  the  chorus  of  one  of  the  theatres.  He  was 
going  to  Albany,  New  York,  for  two  or  three  days,  and  asked 
her  to  accompany  him.  She  went,  and  by  some  strange 
turn  of  fate  fell  savagely  in  love  with  him.  He  thought  it 
was  an  experience  that  would  last  a  day  only,  but  for  two 
years  this  woman  persecuted  him  until  his  life  ceased  to  be 
of  any  value  whatever.  He  was  a  millionaire,  and  he  gave 
her  £8000,  but  this  only  whetted  her  appetite  for  more  money 


io8  I  MYSELF 

and  for  a  greater  revenge.  One  day  she  went  over  to  his 
house  and  penetrated  to  the  chamber  of  his  poor  little 
invalid,  and  made  such  a  scene  that  his  wife  was  ill  for  weeks ; 
but  she  understood,  and  forgave  him  with  her  whole  heart. 

Every  morning  when  he  left  Brooklyn,  where  he  lived,  this 
Jezebel  waited,  accompanied  him  to  New  York,  abused  him 
all  the  way  to  his  office,  and  often  returned  with  him  at  night 
as  far  as  his  own  door,  all  the  while  making  terrible  threats. 
He  said  to  Mary  he  was  sure  that  in  the  end  this  woman 
would  take  his  life,  and  Mary  said,  "  If  that  is  true,  give  her 
£50,000  or  £100,000 — your  life  is  worth  everything."  He 
was  a  man  who  had  a  host  of  poor  relations  in  the  South  and 
generously  supported  a  number  of  them.  He  gave  largely 
to  charity,  and  he  had  the  tenderest  and  kindest  heart  I 
have  ever  known,  but  the  woman  had  made  him  hate  her, 
and  he  refused  to  give  her  another  farthing — so  one  morning 
on  Broadway  she  came  behind  him  and  shot  him  several 
times  in  the  back.  He  staggered  into  a  chemist's  shop  and 
leaned  on  the  marble  counter  with  his  life  blood  running 
down  his  sleeves  and  over  his  gloves,  and  he  died  in  a  few 
minutes.  The  woman  was  never  tried  as  she  fell  ill  in  prison 
and  died  of  pneumonia.  Then  the  New  York  papers  came 
out  and  described  this  man  as  a  leper,  who  had  taken  advan- 
tage of  the  youth  and  innocence  of  a  charming  young  girl, 
and  a  fine  story  was  made  of  his  hardness  and  heartlessness 
— but  this  is  the  inside  truth  of  that  unfortunate  affair. 
Poor  David,  with  his  generous  soul,  his  chivalrous  nature, 
and  his  impossibility  of  doing  a  mean  or  ungentlemanly 
thing,  was  killed  by  one  of  those  harpies,  born  into  the  world 
for  the  purpose  of  destruction.  He  paid  for  his  sin  with  his 
life.  That  was  the  end. 


CHAPTER   XXI 


"  The  soul  grows  by  leaps  and  bounds,  by  throes  and  throbs.  A 
flash  !  and  glory  stands  revealed  for  which  you  have  been  groping 
blindly  through  the  years." 

ABOUT  this  time  A.  M.  Palmer  produced  the  "  Parisian 
Romance  ' '  with  Richard  Mansfield  as  Baron  Chevrial. 
And  he  at  once  made  himself  and  the  play  famous. 
After  all  the  critics  had  written  about  the  play  I  sent  an 
article  to  "  The  New  York  World."  Mr  Hurlbert,  who  was  then 
the  editor,  published  it,  and  luckily  it  aroused  a  little  con- 
troversy, and  later  on  I  received  a  short  note  from  the  editor 
saying  that  he  would  like  to  see  me — and  then  I  went  on 
"  The  World  "  at  a  weekly  wage  as  an  ordinary  reporter.  And 
the  work  !  Mr  Hurlbert  never  considered  me  any  more  than 
if  I  had  been  a  strong  young  man.  I  was  sent  at  any  time, 
day  or  night,  to  this,  that,  and  the  other  person  for  inter- 
views. I  wrote  a  long  series  of  articles  called  "  Curious 
Occupations,"  which  necessitated  my  seeing  half  the  crooks 
of  New  York.  And  I  climbed  up  factory  stairs,  went  over 
laundries,  hospitals,  shops,  and  manufactories  of  all  kinds, 
and  wrote  and  wrote  about  working  women  and  every  sort 
of  subject  until  I  had  writer's  cramp — and  I  have  never 
entirely  escaped  from  it  since. 

At  the  same  time  I  had  much  for  which  to  thank  Mr 
Hurlbert.  He  was  one  of  the  people  who  should  have  been 
a  teacher.  His  father  was,  I  believe,  a  professor  of  sorts  hi 
the  South.  Mr  Hurlbert  himself  had  a  lucid  power  of 
explanation  and  a  quick  critical  faculty  which  was  unsur- 
passed. He  was  a  hard  master,  but  a  most  profitable  and 

109 


no  I  MYSELF 

inspiring  one.  He  would  cast  his  eye  down  a  column  of 
copy,  take  a  blue  pencil  and  run  ruthlessly  through  two- 
thirds  of  it,  and  say,  "  This  is  all  nonsense.  Now  I'll  give 
you  the  names  of  a  dozen  books  to  read  so  that  you  will  see 
why."  And  quick  as  lightning  he  jotted  down  the  names 
of  the  books,  and  off  I  went  to  a  library  to  get  them.  Now 
this  was  most  kind,  as  he  was  a  busy  man  and  a  most 
selfish  one,  but  while  I  worked  under  him  I  felt  my  mind 
open  exactly  as  if  it  had  been  a  bud  blossoming  into  flower, 
so  helpful  and  so  stimulating  was  his  influence.  He  was  at 
once  a  ruthless  critic  and  also  an  encouraging,  inspiring  one. 
And  he  was  always  optimistic  and  illuminating,  and  I  never 
knew  anyone  who  possessed  such  a  fund  of  knowledge  upon 
every  conceivable  subject.  He  was  a  living,  enthusiastic, 
joyous,  intensely  interesting  encyclopaedia.  I  remember  one 
dazzling  evening  hearing  him  give  a  complete  history  of 
Peru,  so  romantic  and  entrancingly  interesting  that  a 
publisher  present,  with  a  pencil  and  half  sheet  of  paper 
drew  up  then  and  there  a  contract  for  a  book.  And  from 
Peru  he  transported  us  to  Mexico,  and  opened  up  mines  of 
gold  and  silver,  and  finally  the  evening  closed  with  half  a 
dozen  ghost  stories  that  were  magnificently  tense  and 
thrilling.  As  a  conversationalist  Mr  Hurlbert  was  unsur- 
passed, as  a  writer  he  should  have  left  an  immortal  name. 
He  was  unhappily  indifferent,  unmethodical,  and  lacked 
concentration  of  purpose,  but  he  possessed  both  brilliancy 
and  genius.  My  work  was  not  confined  to  any  one  depart- 
ment. He  tried  me  at  everything,  as  he  said  that  in  time 
he  would  make  me  into  a  first-class  journalist — and  absent- 
minded  as  I  am,  and  even  lacking  in  talent,  if  I  had  worked 
long  enough  under  him,  so  great  was  my  diligence  and  so 
anxious  was  I  for  success,  even  this  would  have  come 
to  pass.  I  remember  in  a  certain  Sunday  edition  of  "  The 
World"  I  had  seven  columns,  and  eight  columns  in  another, 
and  I  felt  myself  really  advancing  in  my  profession. 
Then  I  was  given  by  the  Associated  Press  the  description 
of  the  Vanderbilt  ball  to  do.  It  frightened  me  dreadfully, 
for  I  really  didn't  know  where  or  how  to  begin,  but  the  happy 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  JOURNALIST         in 

idea  occurred  to  me  of  going  to  Richard  Hunt,  the  architect 
who  built  W.  K.  Vanderbilt's  house  in  Fifth  Avenue,  and  I 
went.  I  was  shown  into  his  office,  and  he  turned  his  very 
clear,  brilliant,  intelligent,  cold  blue  eyes  on  me  and  said, 
rather  curtly,  "  Well,  what  is  it  you  want  ?  I  am  in  a  hurry 
this  morning."  And  I  said,  "  Mr  Hunt,  I  am  a  struggling 
journalist,  and  a  bad  one,  but  I  have  got  to  go  on  in  the 
profession  because  I  have  myself  and  my  little  boy  to  sup- 
port, and  I  have  only  my  pen  to  do  it  with.  I  don't  know 
a  thing  in  the  world  about  architecture,  and  I  have  been 
given  the  Vanderbilt  ball  by  the  Associated  Press  to  report. 
Now,  I  ask  you,  as  man  to  man,  to  give  me  an  intelligent 
description  of  the  house — I  believe  you  built  it.  Will  you 
do  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  will.  I  am  busy  this  morning,  but  I 
will  put  on  my  hat  and  take  you  up  to  the  house  now." 

And  in  five  minutes  we  were  on  a  Fifth  Avenue  stage.  As 
we  entered  the  door  Mr  Hunt  pointed  upward  and  said, 
"  Here  is  a  pendentive  dome."  "  What,"  I  asked,  "  is  a 
pendentive  dome  ?  "  "  Don't,"  he  said,  "  ask  any  questions 
—just  put  down  what  I  tell  you — but  since  you  have 
asked,  a  pendentive  dome  is  one  where  you  stand  at  the 
bottom  of  the  house  and  look  straight  without  interruption 
to  the  arch  at  the  top." 

Then  he  kindly  gave  me  letters  of  introduction  to  various 
people  who  were  dancing  the  quadrilles,  and  the  costumiers 
who  were  making  the  dresses.  Mrs  Vanderbilt  and  her 
husband  and  Lady  Mandeville  showed  me  their  costumes, 
and  from  that  moment,  except  for  the  continual  work  and 
the  constant  running  about,  my  description  of  the  great 
event  was  made  easy  for  me — and  Mrs  Vanderbilt  invited 
me  to  the  ball.  I  told  her  that  I  could  not  accept,  on  account 
of  the  expense,  as  she  wished  all  the  dresses  to  be  so  magnifi- 
cent, but  finally  she  consented  to  my  wearing  the  habit  of 
a  nun.  This  I  could  afford,  because  the  black  nun's  cloth 
could  easily  be  made  over  into  a  summer  dress.  The  white 
linen  bands,  veil  and  crucifix  were  lent  to  me  by  a  nun,  and 
I  not  only  did  the  description  for  the  Associated  Press,  but 


ii2  I  MYSELF 

a  special  description  for  "  The  New  York  World,"  and  many 
smaller  paragraphs  that  went  the  round  of  the  provincial 
press. 

Some  verses  apropos  of  the  nun,  who  was  the  humblest 
and  the  least-known  person  at  the  ball,  were  sent  to  "  The 
World,"  and  when  I  went  into  the  office  a  day  or  two  later 
Mr  Hurlbert  read  me  with  much  amusement  : 

"  As  from  the  throng  of  moving  masks 

I  drew  a  space  apart, 
Well  known  to  some,  unknown  to  me 

By  my  imperfect  art ; 
One  in  the  habit  of  a  nun 

Stopped  short  as  in  surprise, 
And  through  her  domino  I  saw 

Two  soft,  regarding  eyes. 

Long  looked  we  both,  for  half  I  felt 

Her  gaze  no  mischief  spoke, 
And  then  it  was  a  woman's  hand 

Reached  to  me  from  the  cloak  ; 
A  voice  I  never  heard  before 

But  most  sincere  and  sweet, 
Said, '  Ah,  my  love,  do  we  once  more 

Touch  hand  to  hand  and  meet  ?  ' ; 

The  poet  gave  rein  to  his  imagination,  as  there  was  no 
domino,  nor  did  the  nun  say,  "  Ah,  my  love,  do  we  once 
more  touch  hand  to  hand  and  meet !  "  These  things  were 
all  "  poetic  licence,"  but  at  any  rate  there  was  a  ball,  there 
was  a  very  very  tired  journalistic  nun,  and  there  was  a 
rhymester,  if  not  a  poet. 

Mr  Hurlbert  wrote  me  before  the  ball : 

"32  WAVERLEY  PLACE, 
"  NEW  YORK. 

"  MY  DEAR  LADY  FROM  THE  SOUTH, — Your  suggestion  is 
an  excellent  one  and  shall  be  duly  worked  out  so  that  you 
may  see  Dazien  to-morrow  and  extract  essence  of  his  cynical 
observations.  If  you  will  then  write  out  his  tales  and  send 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  JOURNALIST        113 

them  to  me  on  Friday  that  will  be  quite  early  enough.  I 
shall  hope  also  to  have  your  tale  concerning  the  stage  and  all 
the  quadrilles,  and  in  the  hope  once  more  that  you  will  not 
overdo  yourself  in  this  treacherous  Northern  spring  weather 
which  smiles  but  to  betray, — Always  most  sincerely  yours, 

"  WILLIAM  HENRY  HURLBERT 

"  P.5. — The  portrait  you  were  so  good  as  to  let  me  look  at 
is  not  only  an  admirable  piece  of  technical  work,  but  a  most 
interesting  portrait  of  a  singularly  sweet  and  noble  face,  a 
face  out  of  keeping  with  the  costume  of  our  times  and 
belonging — if  ever  a  face  belonged  it  is  this — to  the  ages  of 
belief.  It  gives  me  much  to  think  of  and  to  say." 

(This  was  a  small  portrait  of  my  father  done  by  a  friend. 
I  wanted  Mr  Hurlbert's  opinion  of  the  work.  Dazien  was 
the  costumier  making  many  of  the  dresses  for  the  Vanderbilt 
ball.) 

And  after  the  ball : 

"  32  WAVERLEY  PLACE, 
"  NEW  YORK,  Tuesday. 

11  MY  DEAR  LADY  FROM  THE  SOUTH, — In  looking  over  all 
the  notices  this  morning  of  the  ball,  I  see  so  many  little 
and  great  blunders  that  I  think  it  will  be  worth  while  to  use 
your  additional  notes  to-morrow.  Pray  see  Mrs  Vanderbilt 
and  Lady  Mandeville  to-day  and  go  over  the  whole  story 
with  them  and  make  any  really  important  corrections.  The 
decorations  might  be  touched  up  a  little  bit.  I  hope  you 
will  not  be  too  tired  to  do  this,  and  if  you  are  not  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  hav  your  notes  as  early  as  possible.  Could 
you  possibly  take  a  cab  and  drive  down  here  and  leave  them 
with  the  Assistant  Editor  should  I  not  be  here  at  10  P.M.  ? 
I  expect,  however,  to  be  here  at  that  time,  and  with  my  best 
thanks  for  the  admirable  work  you  have  done  and  of  which 
too  much  cannot  be  said, — Believe  me,  yours  very  sincerely, 

" WILLIAM  HENRY  HURLBERT" 

Mr  Hurlbert's  letter  amused  me  not  a  little  with  its  polite 
affectation  of  "  taking  a  cab,"  for  in  those  days  a  cab  to  "  The 
8 


u4  I  MYSELF 

World  "  office  would  have  cost  at  least  three  dollars,  and  I 
could  no  more  have  afforded  that  amount  of  money  than  I 
now  can  afford  to  hire  a  motor.  He  was  a  perfect  genius 
in  getting  work  out  of  people.  I  am  sure  that  he  kept  me 
employed  fourteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four  while  I  was 
on  "  The  World."  My  very  spirit  used  to  faint  with  fatigue, 
but  absolute  poverty,  with  a  child  to  support,  is  a  wonderful 
goad  to  a  worn-out  body.  And  he  never  had  occasion  to 
complain  of  lateness,  procrastination,  or  indifference.  He 
said  to  me  once,  "  I  believe  you  love  drudgery."  What  a 
sigh  I  stifled,  before  I  made  a  brave  answer,  for  I  would 
willingly  have  worked  all  night,  and  all  day,  before  losing 
my  job. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

A    CHANGE    OF    OCCUPATION 

"  And  now  we  believe  in  evil 

Where  once  we  believed  in  good, 
The  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil 
Are  easily  understood." 

AT  this  period  Constance  Fenimore  Woolson,  a  novel 
writer  of  excellence  and  of  charm,  was  looming 
on  the  horizon,  and  as  our  reviewer  of  books 
suddenly  disappeared  to  the  country  without  leave,  in  addi- 
tion to  my  more  active  work  quantities  of  books  arrived  for 
me  to  review,  among  them  "  The  Colonel's  Marriage,"  by  this 
author,  published  by  the  Harpers. 

The  scene  was  laid  in  Virginia,  and  I  wrote  of  the  book 
with  keen  appreciation,  and  a  paragraph  from  "  The  World  " 
was  much  quoted,  and  attracted  the  eye  of  the  publishers, 
the  Harpers,  and  was  helpful  later  in  getting  me  my  place 
with  them  as  MS.  reader. 

When  "  The  World  "  changed  hands  Mr  Pulitzer  offered  me 
a  better  salary  than  Mr  Hurlbert,  but  society  reporting,  which 
he  wanted  me  to  do,  is  completely  out  of  my  line.  I  am  like 
the  man  who  said,  "  There  are  three  things  I  never  can 
remember  :  names,  faces — and  I  forget  the  third  thing  I 
can't  remember."  I  always  forget  clothes  and  decorations, 
and  I,  too,  forget  the  third  thing  I  can't  remember — feasts, 
maybe. 

At  any  rate,  I  left  "  The  World,"  and  Mrs  Bradley  Fiske,  a 
daughter  of  Joseph  Harper,  and  a  most  fascinating,  sym- 
pathetic woman  (at  one  time  we  always  held  a  weekly 
symposium  together,  and  sang  duets,  and  talked  and  laughed 


n6  I  MYSELF 

and  thoroughly  enjoyed  ourselves — I  love  her  voice  and  her 
ways),  gave  me  a  letter  to  her  father.  I  was  shown  into  his 
office,  and  after  placing  a  seat  with  old-fashioned  courtesy, 
he  said,  "  Well,  what  is  it  ?  Josie  says  only  nice  things 
about  you,  but  that  isn't  enough,  I  take  it." 

I  said,  "  It's  a  great  deal  to  me,  Mr  Harper,  but  I  want 
more — and  it's  work,  of  course." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr  Harper,  "  can  you  write  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I  can't  really." 

His  eyes  twinkled.  "  Well,  then,"  he  asked,  "  what  are 
you  going  to  do  for  us  ?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  know,"  I  said.  "  I  thought  maybe  you 
would  find  out.  I  can  sweep,  and  dust,  and  wash,  and  clean 
beautifully." 

"  I  see  that,"  he  said,  "  but  can't  you  write  the  least  little 
bit  ?  " 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I'm  a  sort  of  incompetent  writer,  you 
use  one  of  my  book  reviews  in  a  catalogue." 

"  Do  we  ?  "  he  said,  looking  really  pleased,  and  the  cata- 
logue was  sent  for,  he  read  the  paragraph,  and  said,  "  It's 
better  than  I  expected.  Now  you  go  home  and  I'll  send  you 
the  MS.  of  a  book  which  our  readers  have  disagreed  about, 
and  on  your  opinion  rests  a  tentative  engagement  of  six 
months  as  one  of  our  readers  is  away  on  vacation." 

So  off  I  sped,  and  an  hour  later  the  MS.  had  arrived,  and 
how  I  loved  that  book  !  It  was  so  definitely  bad  and  im- 
possible. I  remember  but  one  thing  in  it,  a  young  Guards- 
man, a  kind  of  curly-headed,  muscular,  passionate  Apollo, 
had  been  making  red-hot  love  to  a  married  lady,  who  had 
on  one  occasion  at  least  yielded  to  his  fierce  embraces, 
although  her  subconscious  mind  really  loved  her  husband, 
who  of  course  had  neglected  her  ;  but  with  repentance  of 
heart,  a  sad  expression,  and  patches  of  grey  on  each  temple, 
he  was  returning  home  after  a  temporary  separation  from  his 
tempted  wife  and  his  che-ild.  And  then  the  question  arose 
what  to  do  with  the  Apollo  of  the  passionate  but  faithful 
heart  ?  He  was  strong,  but  he  had  to  die,  and  the  author 
disdained  the  good  old  wheezes  of  battle,  heart  disease,  and 


DISCREET   TOODIE 


A  CHANGE  OF  OCCUPATION  117 

railway  disasters.  So  with  heart  aflame,  and  perfect  health, 
the  Guardsman  unsuspiciously  walked  in  the  Zoo  (it  would 
seem  an  innocent  amusement) — the  London  Zoo — and  there 
through  the  carelessness  of  one  of  the  keepers  (how  I  thanked 
that  keeper)  a  magnificent  lion  of  the  jungle  was  trotting 
around  seeking  whom  he  might  devour.  Oh,  what  a  licking 
of  chops  and  swishing  of  tail  when  he  saw  the  Guardsman, 
and  then  the  hand  to  paw  encounter  between  them  in  a 
part  of  the  Zoo  where  no  one  ever  came  !  The  fight  was  long 
and  terrible,  keen  human  intelligence  and  trained  strength 
against  wild  beast  force.  But  the  British  lion  conquered, 
as  he  always  does.  There  was  the  horrible  scrunching  of  a 
human  skull,  the  brave  blue  eyes  were  closed  for  ever — the 
lion  gave  a  great  roar  of  triumph,  his  tail  stood  perfectly 
upright — and  the  dark  gentleman  (who  presumably  never 
went  to  the  Zoo)  could  come  home  in  perfect  safety  to  the 
arms  of  his  wife.  I  am  glad  the  management  of  the  Zoo  has 
improved  since  this  incident,  for  I  have  been  there  so  very 
very  often,  and  have  never  met  even  the  smallest  animal 
walking  at  large. 

Could  the  author  have  made  the  same  mistake  about  the 
lion  that  the  little  girl  did  who  went  walking  in  Central 
Park  ?  She  was  incurably  mendacious,  and  coming  home 
she  said,  "  Mother,  I  met  a  lion  to-day  walking  in  Central 
Park." 

"  Now,  Mary,"  her  mother  said,  "  you  know  that's  a  lie. 
Go  in  your  room  and  pray  for  forgiveness." 

The  child  obediently  went,  returning  in  a  few  minutes 
with  a  beatific  expression,  and  when  her  mother  asked  if  she 
had  prayed  God  to  be  forgiven  she  said,  "  I  did,  and  God 
said  to  me, '  Never  mind,  Miss  Jones,  I've  often  met  that  dog 
in  Central  Park  and  have  mistaken  him  myself  for  a  lion.'  ' 

My  tentative  engagement  with  the  Harpers  resolved  itself 
into  two  or  three  years,  and  I  left  them  with  very  real  regret. 
The  work  was  continual  and  rather  trying  to  the  eyes,  as  in 
those  days  the  typewriter  was  little  used,  but  I  could  take 
my  own  time,  and  everyone  was  very  kind  I  used  regularly 


n8  I  MYSELF 

to  ask  for  an  increase  of  salary,  which  I  never  got,  as  Joseph 
Harper  always  answered,  "  You  have  enough  to  live  on, 
and  Dobbin  will  turn  up  soon,  and  then  you  will  read  no 
more  MSS." 

At  this  time  the  broken  friendship  between  the  North  and 
the  South  was  being  mended,  and  the  Harpers  were  display- 
ing a  most  generous  and  interested  spirit  towards  the  South. 
Mr  Joseph  Harper  had  sent  both  his  sons  to  a  Virginia 
College,  and  Southern  writers  were  encouraged  and  even 
sought  after.  A  novel  dealing  with  the  South  was  sent  to 
Franklin  Square  with  the  scene  laid  in  Maryland.  It  was 
clever,  but  there  were  a  good  many  pin  pricks  for  Southern 
people  in  it,  and  much  division  of  opinion  among  the  readers, 
who  were  none  of  them  from  the  South,  when  finally  the  book 
was  sent  to  me  for  a  final  decision,  accompanied  by  a 
note  from  Mr  Conant  to  say  I  was  to  read  it  with  unusual 
care. 

What  was  my  horror  on  reading  the  book,  to  find  the 
author  to  be  a  man  who,  without  my  personal  acquaintance, 
had  written  some  unjust  and  unkind  newspaper  paragraphs 
about  me.  And  I  wished  from  my  heart  that  my  enemy 
had  not  written  a  book.  I  sat  down,  however,  and  read 
every  line  with,  I  hope,  a  dispassionate  outlook. 

Mr  Joseph  Harper  had  told  me  when  I  first  went  to  them 
as  a  manuscript  reader,  there  were  three  things  they  required 
in  a  book  :  It  was  to  be  of  mercantile  value,  it  was  to  be 
interesting,  and  it  was  to  be  clean. 

Well,  my  enemy's  book  was  not  unclean  but  coarse,  and 
I  marked  a  good  many  passages  and  said  that  with  these 
eliminated,  or  at  any  rate  greatly  toned  down,  the  book,  since 
it  had  unusual  interest,  and  genuine  cleverness,  should  by  all 
means  be  published.  I  must  confess  I  stretched  my  good 
opinion  as  far  as  it  would  go,  because  I  really  thought  it  some- 
what dry  and  lacking  in  heart,  but  it  seemed  such  a  mean 
thing  to  stab  even  an  enemy  in  the  back,  that  I  could  not 
conscientiously  give  an  antagonistic  opinion. 

When  the  author  saw  the  passages,  he  said  to  Mr  Conant, 
'  Your  reader  seems  to  strike  at  my  very  personality  ";  how- 


A  CHANGE  OF  OCCUPATION  119 

ever,  he  drastically  edited  the  offending  paragraphs  and  the 
book  was  published,  but  in  spite  of  all  its  merits  was  never 
a  success,  and  they  always  spoke  of  it  reproachfully  at  the 
Harpers  as  "  your  book." 

Now  that  I  have  grown  older  and  more  practical,  I  fear 
my  chivalrous  Southern  sentiments  were  more  useful  to  my 
unconscious  enemy  than  to  my  employers.  I  was  over 
scrupulous.  I  never  mind  a  fair  fight  in  an  open  field,  but 
I  have  a  whole-souled  horror  of  the  stab  of  the  assassin. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

LOVING    MEMORIES 

"  BRER  RABBIT  (Prisoner).  '  If  I'm  gwine  to  be  sacaficed,  Brer 
Wolf,  I  wants  to  be  sacaficed  de  right  way.' 

"  BRER  WOLF.  '  What's  de  right  way,  Brer  Rabbit  ?  ' 

"  BRER  RABBIT.  '  Shut  yo'  eyes,  fold  yo'  hands  under  yo'  chin,  an' 
say  :  "  Bless  us  an'  bine  us,  an'  put  us  in  a  place  whar  de  ole  boy  can't 
fine  us."  ' 

"  When  Brer  Wolf  open  his  eyes,  whar  was  Brer  Rabbit  ?  " 

UNCLE  REMUS 

DURING  my  exile  in  the  North,  the  stories  of  Uncle 
Remus  by  Joel  Chandler  Harris  were  of  the  greatest 
comfort  to  me.  I  remember  so  well  the  first  time 
that  dear  Uncle  Remus  became  my  friend.  I  was  terribly 
homesick  and  alone  hi  New  York.  If  I  shut  my  eyes,  I 
could  in  imagination  fairly  smell  the  odour  of  the  magnolia 
and  the  oleander,  and  see  the  mimosa  burst  into  bloom. 
One  night,  in  the  midst  of  a  heavy  snowstorm,  I  went  around 
the  corner  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air  to  a  little  circulating 
library,  and  almost  the  first  book  I  put  my  hand  upon,  was 
a  collection  of  darkey  stories  beginning  with  the  Rabbit  and 
the  Tar  Baby,  and  at  once  I  was  transported  back  into  the 
past.  I  could  see  a  big,  dim  room  with  no  light  in  it, 
except  the  light  from  the  logs  of  a  great  open  fire,  and 
sitting  just  in  front  of  the  hearth  was  a  broad  shouldered 
negro  woman  with  the  children  clustered  all  round  her, 
the  youngest  with  its  head  pillowed  on  her  broad  bosom, 
and  there  we  all  were,  cousins  and  sisters  and  brothers, 
listening  to  the  story  of  the  Tar  Baby,  and  the  Wolf,  and 
the  Rabbit,  and  the  Fox,  and  the  animals  were  talking 
through  her  in  their  wise  and  witty  way  until  our  bedtime, 


LOVING  MEMORIES  121 

when  Mammy  heard  our  prayers,  said  good  night,  and  gave 
each  of  us  her  tender  blessing  until  the  morning. 

I  met  Mr  Harris  once,  and  there  was  some  talk  between 
Major  Pond  and  myself  at  that  time,  about  my  giving  a 
few  readings  in  negro  dialect,  and  Mr  Harris  wrote  me 
apropos  of  this  subject  : 

"  CONSTITUTION, 
"  yth  January  1881. 

"  DEAR  AND  GRACIOUS  LADY, — Mr  Finch  turned  the  matter 
over  to  Mr  Howell  Glen  of  the  Lecture  Committee,  and  I 
was  under  the  impression  he  had  opened  correspondence 
with  you.  I  should  be  extremely  sorry  not  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  hearing  you  interpret  Uncle  Remus.  I 
have  my  own  opinion  as  to  the  absurdity  of  the  interest 
taken  in  the  book  at  the  North,  but  the  interest  undoubtedly 
exists,  and  I  would  be  overjoyed  to  see  you  reap  some  of 
the  benefits  of  it.  There  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why 
you  should  not.  I  feel  that  you  can  do  the  affair  more 
than  justice. 

"  I  trust  you  will  overlook  or  at  any  rate  pardon  any  lack 
of  politeness  on  my  part  during  our  interview.  The  con- 
sciousness of  my  extreme  awkwardness  is  an  affliction  that 
I  have  striven  in  vain  to  overcome,  and  in  addition  to  this 
you  humbled  me  to  the  dust  by  your  tributes  to  Uncle 
Remus.  These  things  and  the  fact  that  your  face  (if 
I  knew  you  better  I  would  say  your  lovely  face),  and 
your  voice,  and  gestures  are  such  startling  reminders  of 
some  one  I  knew  a  great  while  ago,  must  have  given  me 
an  appearance  of  great  constraint.  I  really  felt  like  one  in 
a  dream.  Well,  well,  we  won't  get  in  a  controversy  about 
poor  old  Mr  Carlyle.  He  has  doubtless  overcome  you 
with  his  plug-ugly  vocabulary  and  his  wonderful  facility 
of  humbuggery.  He  never  made  anybody  happy  in  this 
world,  and  if  we  deny  him  remorse  what  a  terrible  spectacle 
we  set  up.  By  all  means  let  us  consider  that  he  was  capable 
of  remorse.  We  do  not  deny  that  to  the  ordinary  criminal. 

"The  Scribners,  I  mean  the  Editors  of  '  Scribner,'  are 


122  I  MYSELF 

pressing  me  to  write  a  serial  based  on  Slave  life  at  the 
South.  It  is  a  matter  that  has  been  worrying  and  fretting 
me  for  several  years,  but  I  haven't  the  confidence  to 
undertake  it. 

"Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  add  to  this  hasty  scrawl  the 
statement  that  I  would  be  more  than  glad  to  hear  from 
you  again  ? — Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  " 

And  later  on  I  sent  him  an  article  about  his  stories  for 
approval,  and  he  wrote  again  : 

"2gth  October  1883. 

"  DEAR  AND  GRACIOUS  LADY, — I  received  your  letter 
Saturday,  and  I  seize  the  first  opportunity  to  thank  you 
for  the  sympathetic  tone  and  intention  of  the  MSS.  you 
enclose,  but  to  tell  you  the  truth  it  rather  saddens  me  to 
read  it.  I  am  perfectly  sure  of  your  appreciation  as  far 
as  its  sincerity  is  concerned,  but  your  article  reads  almost 
like  a  burlesque  on  my  hopes  and  desires.  Knowing  my 
own  limitations,  knowing  just  where  I  have  failed,  and 
where  in  the  very  nature  of  things  I  must  continue  to  fail, 
it  is  rather  a  curious  sensation  to  be  credited  by  you  with 
the  very  things  I  have  longed  to  accomplish. 

"  You  ask  for  some  suggestions.  I  will  give  you  one 
from  the  newspaper  point  of  view.  Your  sketch  is  too 
personal,  and  too  enthusiastic.  The  literary  tone  of  the 
'  Tribune  '  is  as  high  as  any  of  the  Magazines,  and  such 
praise  as  you  have  given  me  will  not  fit  it.  The  '  Tribune  ' 
is  one  of  the  few  papers  I  read  through  and  through,  and 
you  may  be  sure  I  speak  by  the  card.  The  men  who 
make  the  '  Tribune  '  might  all  have  been  distinguished  in 
literature,  and  some  of  them  have  already  become  so.  Uncle 
Remus  has  never  been  noticed  in  the  '  Tribune.'  The 
first  book,  I  mean.  I  have  been  told  that  this  was  because 
the  paper  was  not  on  good  terms  with  the  Appletons,  but 
I  prefer  to  believe  that  the  '  Tribune  '  judged  the  book  on 


LOVING  MEMORIES  123 

its  own  merits.  If  it  was  what  you  and  some  other  very 
partial  friends  believe  it  to  be,  the  '  Tribune '  would  have 
discovered  it.  I  do  not  know  who  presides  over  the  Literary 
Department  since  the  death  of  Dr  Ripley,  but  no  mistakes 
of  judgment  are  ever  made  there.  It  thus  happens  that 
the  '  Tribune/  without  making  much  fuss  about  it,  is 
one  of  the  most  influential  papers  in  American  literature. 
Now  the  forthcoming  Remus  book  is  no  better  than  the 
first,  and  I  question  very  much  whether  the  '  Tribune  ' 
will  allow  anything  to  be  said  about  it  in  its  literary  depart- 
ment, not  because  the  Editor  and  his  Assistants  are  opposed 
to  Southern  literature,  to  quote  the  idea  of  some  of  our 
Southern  lunatics,  but  because  they  are  jealous  of  American 
literature.  The  line  must  be  drawn  somewhere  and  why  not 
at  the  Remus  trash. 

"  I  am  telling  you  this  to  warn  you  against  a  possible 
disappointment . 

"  Mr  Reid's  note,  which  I  return,  is  kind,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  the  new  book  will  be  considered  on  its  real  merits,  just 
as  the  first  one  was.  You  must  remember  that  a  knack  of 
writing  dialect  bears  about  the  same  relation  to  literature 
that  the  Negro  Minstrel  bears  to  Salvini.  I  know  that  you 
really  love  Uncle  Remus.  I  sincerely  trust  that  my  candour 
is  not  disagreeable.  I  am  simply  striving  to  prevent  you 
from  placing  too  high  an  estimate  on  our  Uncle  Remus  in 
your  article  for  the  '  Tribune.'  It  is  to  be  considered  by 
those  whose  judgments  are  not  biassed  by  any  pleasing 
or  happy  recollections  of  the  old  plantation  system.  In 
other  words,  your  article  will  be  judged  not  only  on  its  own 
merits,  but  in  relation  to  the  merits  of  the  new  Remus 
book.  You  are  handicapped  at  the  start  and  you  will  find 
it  necessary  to  exercise  both  caution  and  reserve. 

"  I  enclose  a  note  to  Mr  Osgood.  When  you  receive  the 
advance  sheets,  I  would  advise  that  you  submit  them  to 
Mr  Reid  and  get  his  instructions,  not  only  as  to  the  length 
but  as  to  the  tone  of  the  review.  This  may  save  you  a 
good  deal  of  unnecessary  labour. 

"  Pray  don't  say  ever  again  that  Friday  is  unlucky,  since 


i24  I  MYSELF 

you  wrote  your  letter  on  that  day  it  was  a  lucky  day  for 
me  at  any  rate. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  did  not  send  me  your  photograph, 
but  unfortunately  I  do  not  need  a  photograph  to  remember 
you.  I  shall  never  forget  your  face,  nor  your  voice,  nor  a 
single  word  that  you  have  said.  I  envy  your  friends. 
Heaven  help  us  all !  If  I  had  some  one  near  me  to  give 
such  encouragement  as  you  can  give  what  could  I  not 
accomplish. 

"  I  hope  you  will  write  to  me  occasionally  when  you  have 
time ;  in  one  way  and  another  it  will  do  me  a  vast  amount 
of  good,  and  I  shall  be  very  certain  to  make  answer,  and 
remember  that  Friday  is  just  as  lucky  a  day  as  any. 

"  Do  not  please  be  frightened  at  the  length  of  this  letter, 
for  it  is  not  half  so  long  as  some  I  can  write,  and  if  you 
encourage  me,  probably  will  write. — Ever  your  sincere  and 
faithful  friend,  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  " 

"NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE, 
"October  ijth,  1883. 

"  DEAR  MADAM, — If  the  book  to  which  the  enclosed  refers 
were  not  now  so  old,  we  might  have  been  able  to  make  use 
of  the  matter.  The  new  volume  by  the  same  Author, 
however,  is  announced  for  publication  in  some  two  or 
three  weeks.  If  some  of  the  points  in  this  could  be  em- 
bodied in  an  article  or  in  a  review  of  the  new  book,  there 
might  be  a  chance  of  our  using  it,  at  any  rate  we  should 
be  glad  to  see  it.  Certainly  this  does  not  seem  to  warrant 
in  the  least  the  depreciating  tone  you  use  concerning  it 
and  your  work  in  general  in  your  conversation  the  other 
day. — Yours  respectfully,  J.  WHITELAW  REID." 

And  when  I  answered  this  letter,  came  the  third  letter 
of  Mr  Harris  to  me,  which  somehow  ended  our  corre- 
spondence, but  not  my  tender  and  faithful  affection  for 
him  and  all  that  he  has  ever  written. 


LOVING  MEMORIES  125 

"  12th  November  1883. 

"  DEAR  AND  GRACIOUS  LADY, — I  am  very  sorry  my  letter 
gave  you  pain.  I  am  afraid  you  think  I  do  not  properly 
appreciate  what  you  said  of  my  work,  if  so  you  are  labouring 
under  a  terrible  mistake. 

"The  reading  of  the  MSS.  did  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  for 
I  know  there  is  no  higher  form  of  success  from  an  artistic 
standpoint  than  to  win  the  sincere  praise  of  an  enthusiastic 
and  cultivated  woman.  But  everything  I  said  was  dis- 
connected from  my  own  appreciation,  and  the  opinion  I 
gave  you  was  that  of  an  Editor.  I  was  trying  to  give  you 
a  cue  which  would  make  your  notice  of  the  book  available 
for  the  "  Tribune."  I  hope  Osgood  sent  you  the  book  instead 
of  the  advance  sheets,  for  it  was  already  out. 

"  And  so  you  know  Morgan,  and  you  ask  if  I  know  him. 
Gracious  Heavens  !  I  know  every  thump  and  wriggle  of 
his  little  mind.  Did  you  ever  sleep  near  enough  to  a 
kitchen  to  wake  up  in  the  night  and  hear  a  mouse  trying 
to  climb  out  of  a  dishpan,  and  do  you  remember  how  it 
affected  you  ?  That  is  the  mysterious  feeling  I  have 
about  Morgan.  He  is  the  only  creature  I  ever  saw  whose 
flatness  and  dullness  gave  him  character.  There  is  nothing 
more  original  than  his  stupidity.  I  had  been  writing 
some  off-hand  impressions  of  Boston,  and  what  does  Morgan 
do  but  get  the  proof  sheets  and  sell  the  matter  to  the 
Philadelphia  press  on  his  own  account.  I  had  to  write 
and  stop  the  publication,  and  then  I  had  to  interest  myself 
to  prevent  the  '  Constitution '  from  discharging  Morgan. 
You  will  acknowledge  that  this  ought  to  be  called  an  Ordeal. 
But  Morgan  told  you  true.  He  is  a  writer  on  the  '  Con- 
stitution.' He  goes  out  and  hunts  up  advertisements 
and  writes  them  out.  He  has  quite  a  knack  of  this  business 
and  for  this  reason  I  was  not  willing  that  the  paper  should 
sacrifice  its  own  interests  on  my  behalf,  particularly  when 
I  knew  that  Morgan  was  innocent  of  any  intention  to  wrong 
me  by  selling  my  matter  and  pocketing  the  proceeds.  And 
so  you  know  Morgan !  Well,  well,  when  circumstance 


126  I  MYSELF 

borrows    the    humour  of    fate    we   may  know   that    the 
world  is  smaller  than  we  have  dreamed  of. 

"  I  promised  Mr  Alden  a  sketch  entitled  '  Blue  Dave  ' 
for  the  Christmas  number,  but  the  Osgood's  kept  pressing 
me  so  for  Remus  copy  that  I  could  not  finish  it 
in  time.  I  doubt  if  it  would  have  passed  muster.  Mr 
Alden  is  a  fine  man.  He  has  breadth  and  generosity. 

"  I  don't  know  the  Harpers,  but  I  suppose  they  are  very 
keen.  Take  any  large  successful  firm  that  has  been  com- 
pelled to  adapt  itself  to  the  emergencies  of  four  or  five 
generations,  and  you  will  find  a  great  deal  of  hardness  and 
cant  tucked  away  under  its  idea  of  business.  I  have  a 
horror  of  that  word  and  of  the  idea.  But  really  I  did 
not  start  out  to  put  myself  in  one  of  Morgan's  recitation 
attitudes.  Pardon  me.  The  limit  to  human  endurance 
must  be  at  the  bottom  of  this  sheet,  where  I  sign  myself, — 
Sincerely  and  gratefully  yours, 

"  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

"  Although  I  do  not  need,  as  I  said,  a  Photograph  to 
remember  your  face,  I  still  would  be  very  grateful  if  you 
would  send  me  one." 

Mr  Harris  was  mistaken  in  his  opinion  of  the  Harpers, 
there  was  never  a  more  generous  publishing  firm  than 
theirs.  Perhaps  this  accounts  for  their  failure,  and  the 
business  of  the  old  firm  passing  into  new  hands. 


THE   NUN   OK   THE   VANDEKBILT    BALL 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

BRER  RABBIT  AS  THE  THERMOMETER  OF 
MY  AFFECTIONS 

I  HAVE  a  friend  who  says  that  my  affection  for  people 
is  always  determined  by  the  circumstance  whether  I 
have  read  them  "  Uncle  Remus  "  or  not.  He  often 
asks,  "  Has  she  read  you  '  Uncle  Remus  ?  '  '  and  if  the 
answer  is  "  No,"  he  shakes  his  head  and  says,  "  Ah,  well, 
she  has  not  taken  you  to  her  heart  of  hearts."  And 
indeed  there  is  no  writer  who  so  penetrates  to  the  roots 
of  my  heart  as  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  and  I  do  not  at 
all  agree  with  him  that  the  negro  dialect  is  an  easy  thing 
to  do.  Above  all  it  is  necessary  in  negro  dialect  to 
write  from  the  soul  in  order  to  have  the  sentiment 
reach  the  reader.  It  needs  absolute  directness,  honesty, 
straightforwardness,  a  touch  of  simple  homeliness  and  a 
beautiful  tenderness  to  make  it  real.  Mr  Harris  had  all 
these  qualities  combined  with  a  wonderful  sense  of  both 
humour  and  pathos.  I  have  often  wondered  if  Frank 
Carruthers  Gould  is  a  reincarnation  of  some  old  Virginian 
gentleman,  so  perfectly  does  he  write  negro  dialect.  Where 
will  you  find  greater  observation  or  more  intelligent  philo- 
sophy, than  in  this  little  description  of  Brer  Rabbit  when  the 
Wolf  brings  him  the  news  of  the  death  of  Brer  Fox  : 

"  I  fetch  bad  news,  Brer  Rabbit,"  sez  Brer  Wolf,  sezee. 

"  Bad  news  is  soon  tole,"  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee. 

By  dis  time  Brer  Rabbit  done  come  ter  de  do'  wid  his  head  tied 
up  in  a  red  hankcher.  Brer  Wolf  wuz  gettin'  nearer  Brer  Rabbit, 
but  he  don't  git  too  near. 

"You  better  holler  from  whar  you  stan',  Brer  Wolf,"  sez  Brer 
Rabbit,  "  I'm  monstous  full  of  fleas  dis  mornin'." 

"7 


i28  I  MYSELF 

"  All  right,"  sez  Brer  Wolf,  sezee.  "  Brer  Fox  died  dis  mawnin,' 
sez  Brer  Wolf,  sezee. 

"  Whar  yo'  mo'nin'  gown,  Brer  Wolf  ?  "  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee. 

"Gwine  atter  it  now,"  sez  Brer  Wolf,  sezee.  "I  des'  call  by  fer 
ter  bring  de  news.  I  went  down  ter  Brer  Fox  house  a  little  bit  eer 
go,  en  dar  I  foun'  'im  stiff,"  sezee.  Den  Brer  Wolf  lope  off. 

Den  Brer  Rabbit  jump  up  'en  out  he  went.  When  he  got  to  Brer 
Fox  house,  he  look  in,  en  der  lay  Brer  Fox  stretch  out  on  de  bed 
des  ez  big  ez  life.  Den  Brer  Rabbit  make  like  he  talkin'  to  hisself : 

"  Nobody  roun'  fer  ter  look  atter  Brer  Fox — not  even  Brer  Turkey 
Buzzard  ain't  come  ter  de  funer'l,"  sezee.  "  I  hope  Brer  Fox  ain't 
dead,  but  I  speck  he  is,"  sezee.  "  Even  down  ter  Brer  Wolf  done 
gone  en  lef  'im.  Hit's  de  busy  season  wid  me,  but  I'll  set  up  wid 
'im.  He  seem  like  he  dead,  yet  he  mayn't  be,"  sez  Brer  Rabbit, 
sezee.  "  When  a  man  go  ter  see  dead  folks,  dead  folkes  allers  raises 
up  der  behime  leg  en  hollers,  wahoo  !  "  sezee. 

Brer  Fox  he  lay  still.     Den  Brer  Rabbit  he  talk  little  louder  : 

"  Mighty  funny  !  Brer  Fox  look  like  he  dead,  yit  he  don't  do 
like  he  dead.  Dead  folks  hists  der  behime  leg  en  hollers,  wahoo  I 
When  a  man  come  ter  see  um,"  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee. 

Sno  nuff,  Brer  Fox  lif  up  his  foot  en  holler  wahoo !  En  Brer 
Rabbit  he  tear  out  de  house  like  de  dogs  wuz  atter  'im.  Brer  Wolf 
mighty  smart,  but  nex'  time  you  hear  fum  'im  honey,  he'll  be  in 
trouble.  You  des  hole  yo'  breff  'n  wait." 

Brer  Rabbit  knew  that  if  Brer  Turkey  Buzzard  was  not 
around  Brer  Fox  was  alive.  He  only  went  in  the  house 
to  betray  him  and  to  show  his  cunning. 

And  one  of  the  most  beautiful  stories  in  the  whole  world, 
and  certainly  the  most  beautiful  story  that  has  ever  been 
written  of  the  old  South  is  "  Marse  Chan,"  by  Thomas 
Nelson  Page,  which  is  in  negro  dialect :  it  has  the  tender 
grace  of  a  lay  that  is  dead,  in  every  line. 

The  day  after  its  publication  he  could  with  truth  repeat 
the  words  of  Lord  Byron,  "  I  awoke  and  found  myself 
famous."  For  it  embodies  all  the  traits  of  which  we  of  the 
South  are  so  proud  :  the  chivalrous  honour,  the  tenderness, 
the  splendid  courage,  the  endurance,  the  noble  pride,  and 
the  loyalty  of  the  Southern  character  are  touchingly 
portrayed,  and  it  has  made  a  whole  world  of  lovers  for 
Mr  Page. 


YOU  BETTER  HOLLER  FROM  WHAR'  YOU  STAN',  BRER  WOLF,"  SEY  BRER 
RABBIT,  "I'M  MONST'OUS  FULL  OF  FLEAS  DIS  MORNIN'  !" 


THE  THERMOMETER  OF  MY  AFFECTIONS    129 

Years  after  its  publication  the  author  wrote  me  this 
modest  letter  : 

"  RICHMOND,  July  22nd,  1888. 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  have  only  to  thank  you  for 
an  added  kindness.  The  '  Star'  arrived  containing  your  most 
flattering  notice  of  myself  and  '  Marse  Chan.'  I  scarcely 
can  claim  now  to  be  its  author,  for  I  feel  that  the  old  life 
of  the  South  was  the  author  of  its  being,  and  I  was  simply 
the  amanuensis  who,  being  so  fortunate  as  to  catch  its  echo, 
transcribed  it. 

"  I  assure  you  my  debt  to  the  '  Star '  as  well  as  to  its 
delightful  editor  is  very  great,  and  I  beg  that  you  will  convey 
to  him  my  acknowledgments. 

"When  my  new  story,  'Two  Little  Confederates,'  now 
running  in  '  St  Nicholas,'  appears  in  book  form,  which 
will  be  about  October,  I  shall  send  it  to  you,  for  although 
your  boy  will  probably  be  too  old  to  appreciate  it,  I  know 
that  his  mother  will  not  be,  and  it  contains  a  fair  account, 
making  allowances  for  romantic  licence,  of  the  house  where 
I  was  born.  And  our  old  Bella,  and  mother,  and  the  boys, 
are  real,  and  are,  thank  God  !  still  spared  to  me. 

"  The  notice  of  the  reception  was  read  and  greatly  enjoyed 
by  both  Anne  and  myself.  We  recognized  our  friend  Miss 
Kenny  among  the  ladies  who  assisted  the  hostess,  or  was 
it  her  sister  ? 

"  Major  Reilly,  our  Judge  at  Cairo,  made  very  pleasant 
mention  of  Mr  O'Connor  to  me  the  other  day,  but  our  con- 
versation was  too  formal  for  me  to  learn  all  I  wished.  It  is 
rather  a  joke,  I  suspect,  for  Reilly  came  home  to  testify  in  a 
suit  I  was  prosecuting  against  him  and  his  brother,  and  one 
George  Campbell,  formerly  one  of  Mr  O'Connor's  Liverpool 
constituents,  for  fraud,  and  my  only  communication  with 
him  was  in  the  court  room.  We  used  to  be  very  good 
friends,  and  I  did  not  charge  Judge  Reilly  with  fraud.  It 
is  proper  to  say  that  the  jury  exonerated  John  D.  Reilly  also, 
but  found  Campbell  guilty. 

"  Mrs  Page  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  ill,  but  sends  many  more 


i3o  I  MYSELF 

affectionate  messages  than  I  can  venture  to  give  on  crossed 
paper. — With  our  affectionate  remembrances  to  both  you 
and  Mr  O'Connor,  yours  always  sincerely, 

"  THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE  " 

The  late  Henry  Ward  Beecher  hated  slavery.  He  passed 
from  State  to  State,  and  with  his  mighty  plea  for  the  aboli- 
tion of  slavery,  and  by  his  fiery  eloquence  he  precipitated 
the  Civil  War  that  cost  America  one  million  lives  and  freed 
the  slaves.  But  this  did  not  prevent  his  admiration  of  the 
Southern  character.  I  did  not  like  his  politics,  but  I  knew 
and  loved  Mr  Beecher,  and  when  I  read  "  Marse  Chan  " 
to  him  for  the  first  time,  he  was  most  deeply  touched  and 
the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

Years  afterwards  when  he  came  to  England  I  had  this 
note  from  him  : 

"  HAMPSTEAD,  July  i^th. 

"  MY  DEAR  GIRL, — When  you  come  to  Hampstead  prepare 
yourself  for  a  little  reading  of  our  dear  '  Marse  Chan.' 
You  need  not  bring  it  with  you  as  I  have  the  volume  at 
hand.  I  could  have  read  it  again  myself,  but  have  not  done 
so,  preferring  through  the  absent  years  to  wait  until  we  met 
again. 

"  Thanks  for  your  Stores  ticket.  I  went  there  yesterday 
and  bought  a  little  fruit,  for  which  I  paid  ten  dollars  !  It 
would  not  do  for  me  to  live  in  England,  I  should  become  a 
bankrupt. — Your  sincere  friend, 

"  HENRY  WARD  BEECHER  " 

I  read  him  "  Marse  Chan."  "  It  is  the  last  time  I  shall 
ever  hear  it,"  he  said.  And  it  was,  as  Mr  Beecher  died  the 
following  winter. 

Dr  Parker,  at  whose  house  Mr  Beecher  was  visiting, 
objected.  "  Beecher,"  he  said,  "  you  are  not  going  to  listen 
to  a  whole  story  this  hot  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Parker,"  Mr  Beecher  said,  "  I  am  !  This  is  my  tea-party, 
and  I  am  going  to  sit  on  the  floor  with  my  head  on  Mother's 


THE  THERMOMETER  OF  MY  AFFECTIONS    131 

knee  "  ("  Mother  "  was  his  wife),  "  and  I  am  going  to  have  a 
good  cry.  If  you  don't  want  to  listen,  go  out  in  the  garden." 

Dr  Parker  stationed  himself  by  the  door,  ready  to  flee  into 
the  garden,  but  he  never  stirred  until  the  story  was  finished, 
and  even  then  he  was  unable  to  speak  his  thanks  for  a  few 
moments,  while  his  beautiful  wife,  in  tears,  was  as  deeply 
moved  as  Mr  Beecher  himself — that  wonderful  man,  who  was 
by  far  the  greatest  orator  I  have  ever  heard :  gifted  with 
superb  eloquence,  great  variety  and  picturesqueness  of 
language,  a  deep  chest,  a  fine  throat,  and  a  beautiful  voice 
perfectly  trained,  he  was  an  ideal  preacher.  The  final  test 
of  both  acting  and  oratory  is  the  power  of  the  speaker  to  get 
a  stupendous  effect  in  a  few  words.  I  heard  Mr  Beecher 
in  one  of  his  sermons  end  a  peroration  with  "  You  can  not 
destroy  God.  And  you  can  not  destroy  the  souls  that  echo 
to  God."  His  voice  gathered  force  and  volume  as  he  went 
on,  and  the  last  word  was  like  a  silver  trumpet  calling  upon 
the  congregation  to  maintain  their  faith.  He  had  the 
quality  of  being  always  interesting,  was  full  of  humour, 
daringly  original,  and  quite  a  century  in  advance  of  his  time. 
The  day  of  this  sermon  I  waited  with  Marshall  Wilder  to 
speak  to  him,  and  Mr  Beecher  said  :  "  Wait  a  minute,  I 
want  to  put  on  a  ring,"  and  taking  out  of  his  pocket  a 
wonderful  opal  he  placed  it  on  his  stubby  finger  and  turned 
it  to  catch  the  light,  with  the  delight  of  a  child.  He  had 
a  perfect  mania  for  gems  :  their  clear  and  pellucid  colour  and 
brilliancy  were  a  continual  pleasure  to  him,  and  he  told  me 
he  had  forty  rings.  He  wore  them  only  fitfully,  but  carried 
one  or  two  in  his  pocket  and  occasionally  refreshed  his  sight 
by  looking  at  them. 

Quite  a  different  preacher  from  Mr  Beecher  was  Father 
Ducey,  who  was  for  many  years  one  of  my  staunchest  friends, 
and  whose  death  has  made  a  gap  in  my  life  never  to  be  filled. 
He,  too,  was  a  very  brilliant  orator,  at  times  strikingly 
dramatic,  and  as  intimate  and  dictatorial  with  his  fashion- 
able New  York  congregation  as  any  old  Irish  parish  priest 
laying  down  the  law  to  his  following  of  humble  peasants. 

He  endured  the  huge  hats  as  they  are  worn  now  as  long  as 


i32  I  MYSELF 

he  could,  and  then  he  admonished  the  startled  ladies  under 
his  gaze  to  get  another  headgear  for  St  Leo's,  as  the  church 
was  not  built  for  the  present  mode,  and  he  must  have  more 
than  two  women  sitting  in  a  pew. 

When  he  was  preaching  a  sermon  once,  on  marriage,  he 
said  :  "  Marriage  between  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman 
is  made  by  God  ;  between  an  old  man  and  a  young  woman  is 
made  by  man  ;  but  between  an  old  woman  and  a  young  man 
it  is  made  by  the  devil."  His  tongue  was  caustic,  but  his 
heart  was  kind,  and  his  nature  was  one  of  the  most  generous, 
giving  constantly  in  charity,  and  he  was  instantly  touched 
and  moved  by  every  tale  of  woe.  His  influence  over  young 
men  was  very  great,  and  his  interest  in  them  was  truly 
understanding  and  paternal.  One  of  his  friends  was  a 
handsome,  reckless  young  blackguard,  who  had  committed 
nearly  every  crime  in  the  calender,  and  finally  got  such  a 
terrible  reputation  that  Father  Ducey  told  him  not  to  visit 
him  in  the  day  when  he  could  be  seen.  But  he  received  him 
at  night,  and  never  failed  to  pray  for  him  and  to  hope  for  a 
regeneration  of  spirit.  He  was  the  most  popular  priest  in 
New  York,  and  at  any  public  meeting  the  mention  of  his 
name  was  the  signal  for  a  great  burst  of  applause.  It  is 
easy  to  be  popular  with  the  comfortable  and  rich,  but  the 
poor  find  out  a  man's  inmost  heart,  for  they  demand  both 
patience  and  help.  Father  Ducey,  through  his  constant 
generosity,  made  himself  one  of  them.  And  blessed  are  the 
poor,  for  theirs  shall  be  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE  DOMESTIC  PROBLEM  SOLVED.     BRIGIT, 
THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  WORLD 

WHEN  I  neglected  reading  my  MSS.  for  the  Harpers, 
as  I  sometimes  did,  a  vast    collection  used  to 
accumulate,  and  I  then  farmed  them  out  to  my 
various    good-natured    friends.      Father   Ducey   has   read 
many  a  one   for   me,  and   Dr  Walter   Gillette,  my  kind 
and  good  friend  as  well  as  physician,  nearly  always  had 
a  number  on  hand. 

I  have  often  wondered  if  my  work  suffered  during  the 
last  summer  that  I  spent  in  New  York,  but  at  Franklin 
Square  they  never  complained — probably  they  never  knew 
of  my  illness. 

It  was  a  blazing  hot  summer,  Mary  Agnew  had  gone  to 
live  in  the  country,  and  I  had  taken  a  small  flat  and  settled 
myself  in  it  with  Brigit,  who  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
women  I  have  ever  known  and  a  priceless  gem  to  me.  She 
had  lived  with  me  off  and  on  for  a  number  of  years,  and 
with  her  various  accomplishments  commanded  high  wages, 
and  I  really  did  not  expect  any  such  good  fortune  as  her 
coming  to  me  for  what  I  could  afford  to  pay  her,  but  she 
did  come,  and  in  spite  of  real  poverty  I  lived  like  a  lady. 
Brigit  was  an  accomplished  cook,  she  could  do  anything, 
bone  turkey,  make  all  sorts  of  salads,  cook  vegetables  like 
a  Frenchwoman,  boil  rice  like  an  Indian,  and  make  the 
lightest  cakes  and  the  most  wonderful  sweets  I  ever  ate. 
She  was  also  a  first-class  laundress,  and  in  those  days  all 
my  clothes  were  white.  White  dressing-gowns  in  the 
morning,  and  white  muslin  in  the  afternoon,  and  Brigit 


134  I  MYSELF 

did  all  the  washing  for  the  house  and  for  me.  On  Monday 
morning  she  was  up  at  5  o'clock  (each  flat  had  a  little 
laundry  assigned  to  it  at  the  top  of  the  house)  and  by 
9  o'clock  she  had  all  her  clothes  hung  up  to  dry  and  my 
breakfast  ready.  She  kept  the  flat  spotlessly  clean  and 
managed  the  entire  work,  washing,  ironing,  cooking  and 
waiting  on  me,  and  when  Toodie  came  home  from  school 
for  his  vacation  she  looked  after  him  as  well,  and  yet  she 
had  time  to  read  "  The  New  York  Sun  "  and  to  discuss 
politics  with  me.  And  I  have  never  seen  so  thrifty  a 
servant.  She  never  threw  away  even  one  crumb  of  stale 
bread,  but  dried  it,  pounded  it  into  powder,  and  put  it  aside 
for  breakfast  cakes,  and  those  cakes  with  fresh  radishes  and 
a  cup  of  marvellous  coffee  were  all  that  she  allowed  me  for 
breakfast.  I  was  never  afraid  to  have  the  smartest  people 
come  to  see  me,  because  everything  was  exquisitely  done 
and  in  such  order,  and  Brigit  always  spotless  in  a  nice 
gingham  dress  and  long  white  apron  was  quite  ready  to 
answer  the  door.  If  I  went  out  at  night  to  a  theatre  or 
a  party,  she  always  waited  up  for  me  until  I  came  in,  and 
saw  that  I  was  in  bed  before  she  left  me.  She  had  many 
offers,  of  course,  to  get  higher  wages,  and  my  kind  friends 
often  tried  to  entice  her  away,  but  her  answer  was  "  that 
I  had  my  ways  and  she  had  her  ways,  and  they  happened 
to  agree,  and  she  thought  she  had  better  stay."  How 
fond  my  friends  were  of  Brigit  and  that  little  flat !  I 
entertained  constantly,  giving  both  lunches  and  dinners, 
and  was  not  too  proud  to  have  my  friends  provide  them  if 
they  liked.  I  remember  an  old  friend  from  Maryland  used 
to  come  very  often  to  dinner  and  he  would  say,  "  Don't 
be  alarmed,  my  dinner  is  on  the  stairs,  and  Brigit  has 
undertaken  to  cook  it."  And  I  was  often  sent  Virginian 
hams,  chickens  and  turkeys  from  the  South,  a  barrel  of 
flour,  now  and  then,  from  Georgia,  so  my  table  cost  me 
very  little,  and  I  think  this  part  of  my  life  was  almost  entirely 
happy,  until  I  was  struck  down  by  the  first  attack  of  my 
now  vigilant  and  recurrent  enemy,  peritonitis.  I  went 
out  one  hot  afternoon,  not  feeling  very  well,  and  the  weather 


THE  DOMESTIC  PROBLEM  SOLVED       135 

suddenly   changed,    a  cold  rain  came   up,  and  I  had   no 
umbrella  and  got  soaked  through  to  the  skin.     I   could 
not  afford  a  cab,  and  came  home  on  a  crowded  street  car, 
having  to  stand  outside,  and  the  draught  blowing  on  my 
soaked  clothes  gave  me  a  terrible  chill.     That  night  I  had 
a  high  temperature,  and  when  at  last  I  sent  for  my  doctor 
he  pronounced  it  peritonitis,  and  for  two  months  I  was 
in  bed  and  Brigit's  labours  were  much  increased,  as  I  could 
not  afford  to  have  a  trained  nurse,  and  she  had  to  do  all 
the  work  of  the  flat  as  well  as  to  nurse  me.     My  doctor 
often  came  at  9  o'clock  at  night  and  stayed  with  me  until 
12  o'clock  so  that  she  might  have  a  little  sleep  for  the  first 
part  of  the  night,  and  during  these  two  months  I  never 
heard  her  complain  of  fatigue,  nor  was  she  ever  impatient. 
And  every  evening  my  funny  shabby  old  carpet  bag,  with 
various  labels  on  it,  arrived  from  Franklin  Square  full  of 
MSS.,  and  the  next  morning  the  boy  called  on  his  way  down 
to  the  office  to  take  back  what  I  had  read.      My  Doctor 
said  that  if  I  did  not  stop  work  and  give  myself  a  chance 
of  rest  I  would  certainly  die,  but  if  I  lost  my  salary  from 
Franklin  Square  I  would  starve,  so  I  had  to  go  on.     I  have 
never  minded  work,  but  this  was  unrelenting  bitter  poverty, 
to  be  obliged  to  read  and  think  and  write  with  a  temperature 
varying  from  103  to  104,  and  my  exhausted  body  racked 
with  the  most  terrible  pain  that  a  woman  can  endure,  and 
my   brain,    dulled   by   opium,   working   fitfully   and   with 
difficulty.     Finally,  the   worst    fears    of   Dr   Gilette   were 
realized,   an    abscess    formed   which    seriously    threatened 
my  life,  and  did  eventually  give  me  a  slight  attack  of  blood 
poisoning,  but  I  made  a  most  valiant  effort  to  live,  as  my 
death  would  have  left  my  little  son  unprovided  for  and 
alone.      And  I  told  the  doctor  that  I  simply  could  not 
and  would  not  die,  although  I  calmly  made  preparations  to 
do  so,  sorting  and  burning  my  letters,  and  making  my  will, 
which  was,  after  all,  only  to  ask  an  old  friend  to  care  for 
my  little  boy  and  to  have  me  buried  in  the  South  under 
a  magnolia  tree.     I  felt  that  I  wanted  to  be  far  away  from 
the  rush,  the  noise,  and  the  loneliness  of  New  York. 


136  I  MYSELF 

The  crisis  passed  and  I  got  better,  and  finally  Dr  Gilette 
told  me  the  time  had  come  for  me  to  be  able  to  bear  the 
pain  with  reduced  doses  of  morphine,  and  from  that  moment, 
although  he  said  it  was  much  too  sudden,  I  refused  to  take 
it  again.  I  was  wrong,  the  sudden  cessation  of  the  opiate 
was  a  terrible  wrench  to  my  nerves,  and  I  had  not  a  moment's 
sleep  for  forty-eight  hours  ;  but  I  have  always  had  a  strong 
will,  and  plenty  of  self-control.  If  it  is  necessary  for  me 
to  do  a  thing  I  can  do  it,  no  matter  what  the  suffering  may 
be.  I  remember  one  night  when  the  pain  was  uncontrollable 
and  my  poor  numb  legs  had  been  in  the  same  position  for 
weeks,  I  asked  Brigit  to  tell  me  something  interesting 
enough  to  make  me  forget  it.  "  Think,"  I  said,  "  of  the 
thing  in  your  life  which  you  remember  most  clearly  and 
tell  me  that,"  and  Brigit  said  :  "I'll  tell  you  the  story  of 
my  nun." 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  NUN 

A  GOOD  many  years  ago  I  was  a  servant  at  a 
convent  in  New  Jersey  for  the  cure  of  consumption. 
Among  the  patients  was  a  young  married  man 
about  thirty,  very  handsome,  with  black  eyes  and  hair. 
He  looked  like  a  Spaniard,  and  he  may  have  been  one.  At 
first  he  was  very  ill,  but  after  a  while  he  got  better,  and 
he  was  there  for  a  long  time.  The  sister  who  nursed  him 
was  most  experienced,  and  he  obeyed  her  like  a  child,  and 
always  wanted  her  with  him.  She  had  lived  all  her  life 
in  convents,  being  left  an  orphan  at  nine ;  the  sisters  had 
educated  her,  and  at  sixteen  she  became  a  Sister  of  Charity, 
and  ever  since  had  nursed  the  sick  in  the  hospital  for  con- 
sumption. She  was  thirty-two,  but  looked  only  twenty, 
and  her  face  was  lovely — a  real  Madonna  face,  with  sweet 
blue  eyes  and  long  eyelashes,  and  her  smile  was  quite 
beautiful.  All  the  patients  loved  her,  and  everybody 
wanted  to  be  nursed  by  Sister  Teresaf 

"  I  noticed  that  she  was  getting  thin,  and  she  seemed 
very  restless  and  greatly  troubled,  and  at  last  one  night 
I  asked  her  what  was  the  matter,  and  she  began  to 
cry  pitifully,  desperately — I  never  saw  such  sobs — and 
said,  '  Brigit,  can  I  trust  you  ?  There  is  no  other 
creature  in  all  the  world  to  help  me.'  And  I  said  she 
could,  and  then  she  gasped  out,  '  The  greatest  trouble 
that  can  befall  a  woman  is  mine — I  am  ruined,  soul  and 
body — God  will  never  forgive  me.  There  is  the  man  I 
love — I  do  love  him,  but  I  hate  myself.'  She  pointed  to 
the  garden  where  he  was  sitting.  It  was  in  May,  and 


i38  I  MYSELF 

the  Spanish-looking  man  was  nearly  well  then,  and  as 
happy  and  gay  as  possible.  She  went  on,  "I  must  get 
away  from  here  as  quickly  as  I  can.  Take  this  money  and 
buy  me  a  dress  and  a  hat  and  shoes,  and  I'll  go  to-night.' 
That  afternoon  I  went  out  and  bought  a  very  plain  black 
alpaca  dress,  as  that  was  more  like  a  nun's  habit  than  any- 
thing, and  a  black  hat  with  a  pink  rose,  but  she  wouldn't 
wear  the  rose,  and  ripped  it  off  with  her  poor,  trembling, 
awkward  fingers,  and  gave  it  to  me.  I  did  enjoy  seeing  her 
pretty  little  feet  in  high-heeled  shoes.  I  got  them  with 
buckles,  but  she  never  noticed  them,  she  was  crying  so. 
Every  part  of  her  habit  she  laid  her  head  upon  and  kissed — 
her  crucifix,  her  belt,  her  beads,  and  her  cap,  with  its  white 
wings  like  a  bird,  she  held  to  her  breast  as  if  it  had  been  a 
child,  the  cap  she  had  worn  so  long  and  so  honourably.  '  Oh, 
Brigit,'  she  said,  '  how  could  I  have  forgotten  my  vows, 
and  after  sixteen  years  !  Oh,  merciful  God,  help  me — and 
he  has  a  wife  !  That's  the  worst  of  all !  '  She  was  white 
with  despair,  but  she  looked  so  sweet  with  her  short  hair 
curling  all  over  her  head  just  like  a  young  girl. 

"  At  eight  o'clock  we  stole  away  and  went  to  an  apartment 
he  had  taken  for  us  in  New  York.  I  did  all  the  work  and  I 
never  saw  any  gentleman  in  the  world  love  a  lady  as  much 
as  he  did  her.  He  never  went  out  or  came  in  without  kissing 
her  hand,  and  I  often  saw  him  kiss  her  shoe,  and  he  always 
brought  her  some  little  thing — a  rose,  or  a  bunch  of  violets, 
or  a  little  box  of  sweets,  or  a  book,  or  a  picture  paper,  or 
some  trifle  to  show  her  that  he  was  thinking  of  her.  He 
said  his  wife  drank,  and  he  could  divorce  her,  and  he  would 
marry  Sister  Teresa  the  moment  he  could.  But  he  saw 
as  well  as  I  did  that  she  was  fretting  herself  to  death — her 
conscience  never  gave  her  a  moment's  rest.  Finally,  she 
must  have  spoken  to  him  about  leaving  him,  for  he  called 
me  aside  one  morning  and  said,  '  Brigit,  don't,  for  God's 
sake,  help  Teresa  get  away  !  I  love  her,  and  I  know  I  can 
make  her  happy  in  time,  and  I  can't  live  without  her — and 
let  me  tell  you  this  :  if  you  help  her  to  get  away,  the  first 
time  I  see  you  afterward  I'll  shoot  you  like  a  dog.'  He  was 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  NUN  139 

so  fierce  he  frightened  me  terribly.  That  same  week  Sister 
Teresa  wrote  to  the  Mother-house  in  Cincinnati,  and  the 
Reverend  Mother  wrote  to  her  to  meet  her  in  New  York  at 
another  convent,  a  little  boys'  school,  and  one  day  we  stole 
away.  She  left  the  man  a  letter  that  must  have  broken  his 
heart.  She  said  in  it  that  she  loved  his  body,  but  she  loved 
his  soul  more,  and  she  was  going  away  to  save  it — and  hers — 
and  that  her  every  breath  would  mean  a  prayer  for  him,  and 
their  child — and  she  prayed  him  to  be  patient  and  to  forgive 
her.  I  got  her  a  little  crucifix  to  put  in  the  letter,  and  how 
she  kissed  it  and  clung  to  it  !  He  was  to  forgive  her — wasn't 
that  like  a  woman  !  It  was  four  months  since  we  came  to 
New  York,  and  this  was  the  first  time  we  had  left  the  apart- 
ment. She  was  like  a  poor  helpless  child  in  the  world,  and 
afraid  of  the  streets.  We  arrived  at  the  convent  about  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  Reverend  Mother  from  Cin- 
cinnati, and  the  Mother  of  the  convent  were  both  waiting. 
When  the  poor  thing  got  out  of  the  train  she  dropped  first 
on  her  knees  and  then  she  laid  her  face  on  the  Reverend 
Mother's  shoes,  and  the  Mother  stooped  and  raised  her  up 
in  her  arms,  and  we  four  women  cried  fit  to  break  our  hearts. 

"  It  was  decided  the  next  day  that  the  two  Mothers  should 
between  them  adopt  the  baby  when  it  came,  and  educate  it, 
and  care  for  it,  and  Sister  Teresa  was  to  enter  the  order  of 
the  Magdalen  Nuns." 

"  And  did  you,"  I  asked,  "  never  hear  of  her  again, 
Brigit  ?  " 

"  Wait,"  Brigit  answered,  "  I  went  to  Brooklyn  to  live, 
and  for  a  while  I  was  terribly  afraid  of  meeting  the  man,  but 
I  never  did." 

"  I  hope,"  I  said,  "  the  baby  died,  and  she  was  spared  her 
second  great  heartbreak  of  parting  with  it.  She  didn't 
count  on  that  little  cry,  and  the  flood  of  love  that  comes  with 
it,  to  wedded  and  un wedded  mothers  alike." 

'  Yes,"  said  Brigit,  "  she  died  when  the  baby  was  born, 
and  the  baby  died  too." 

"  What  became  of  the  father  ?  "   I  asked. 

'  The  Reverend  Mother,"  Brigit  said,  "  managed  in  some 


140  I  MYSELF 

way  to  get  the  news  to  him  of  Sister  Teresa's  death,  and  he 
became  a  Catholic  and  was  never  out  of  church,  but  only 
lived  two  months  afterwards.  He  must  have  been  glad  to 
die,  for  I  never  saw  a  gentleman  love  a  lady  so  much." 

The  dawn  had  come  ;  and  with  daylight  all  pain,  physical 
and  mental,  is  easier  to  bear — so  I  sent  Brigit  for  a  little 
rest,  and  then  I  slept  myself. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

I  BECOME  ENGAGED 

MY  Mary  had  been  married  and  had  gone  to  Ireland 
to  live,  and  when  I  was  well  enough  to  travel,  she 
insisted  upon  my  taking  a  vacation  and  coming  to 
Ballymena  and  making  her  a  visit,  and  I  went  over  and 
arrived   at    Belfast   in  September   (how  beautiful   Ireland 
was,   and  how  I   loved  it  !),   and  remained  abroad  until 
February. 

The  weather  was  bitterly  cold  that  winter,  but  the  absolute 
quiet  of  the  life  in  the  country,  the  very  early  hours,  and  the 
quiet  soft  air,  and  her  beloved  companionship,  did  every- 
thing for  me,  and  before  I  left  Ballymena  I  was  feeling  strong 
and  well  once  more,  and  full  of  hope. 

I  came  to  London  from  Ireland,  to  join  two  friends  of  mine 
from  Richmond,  Mrs  Day  and  Elizabeth  her  daughter.  How 
pretty  Elizabeth  was  !  She  was  just  twenty-three,  with 
slate-grey  eyes,  and  hair  to  match — I  never  saw  hair  which 
had  grown  grey  so  evenly  as  hers,  and  it  fell  in  heavy  masses 
down  to  her  knees  like  a  dove-coloured  veil. 

Mrs  Day  had  been  recommended  to  go  to  No.  9  George 
Street,  Hanover  Square — it  was  a  pension  kept  by  Miss 
Moore,  an  Irish-woman  of  excellent  family,  who  had  herself 
lived  a  great  many  years  in  Virginia ;  her  brother  had  been 
a  General  in  the  Confederate  Army. 

The  pension  had,  like  herself,  plenty  of  character ;  the 
table  was  excellent  and  bountiful,  and  the  food  was  of  the 
very  best  quality.  She  got  up  early  in  the  morning  and  went 
to  Mass,  and  to  market  afterwards.  As  to  furniture,  there 
was  nothing  in  the  house  that  matched  anything  else,  as 

«*> 


142  I  MYSELF 

everything  had  been  bought  at  sales,  and  at  second-hand 
shops.  There  was  nothing  vulgar  in  the  house,  and  there 
were  some  bits  of  splendour,  and  it  had,  in  spite  of  the  dirt 
of  a  good  many  London  fogs,  an  air  of  gentility,  and  Miss 
Moore  herself  possessed  the  kindest  and  most  hospitable 
heart  in  the  world.  Everybody  who  came  under  her  roof  had 
an  instantaneous  claim  upon  her  consideration. 

The  first  day  that  I  arrived  in  London  Colonel  Mitchell, 
the  American  Vice-Consul,  came  to  call  upon  me,  and  as  I 
was  going  to  be  in  London  only  a  very  few  days,  he  pro- 
posed returning  after  dinner  and  taking  me  to  the  House  of 
Commons  to  be  introduced  to  Justin  M'Carthy,  whom  he 
knew.  Great  was  our  vexation  to  find  that  Mr  Justin 
M'Carthy  had  gone  for  the  evening.  I  had  myself  a  letter 
of  introduction  to  him,  and  I  left  it  to  be  delivered  the  next 
day.  The  big,  good-natured  policeman,  seeing  how  terribly 
disappointed  I  was  at  not  seeing  the  House  of  Commons, 
proposed  that  he  should  take  Colonel  Mitchell's  card  to  Mr 
T.  P.  O'Connor,  who,  he  said,  was  always  most  polite  to 
Americans.  In  a  few  moments  the  genial  T.  P.  came  out 
beaming.  He  was  delighted  to  do  the  honours  for  Mr 
M'Carthy,  explained  all  the  House  of  Commons  most  lucidly, 
then  disposed  of  Colonel  Mitchell  and  took  me  up  to  the 
Ladies'  Gallery,  where  his  native  eloquence  poured  forth  like 
a  torrent,  and  he  seemed  prepared  to  keep  me  any  length  of 
time — certainly,  verifying  the  judgment  of  the  policeman 
who  said  he  was  so  kind  to  Americans. 

When  we  came  downstairs  Colonel  Mitchell  was  looking 
quite  gloomy  after  our  prolonged  absence,  nor  did  the  pro- 
position of  T.  P.  to  stroll  home  with  us  seem  to  make  him  any 
more  cheerful.  It  was  only  at  the  door  of  my  pension  that 
T.  P.'s  eloquence  ceased,  and  both  he  and  Colonel  Mitchell 
had  arranged  to  call  upon  me  the  next  day — but  not  together, 
and  this  was  my  first  meeting  with  T.  P. 

The  next  day  Justin  M'Carthy  called  and  invited  me  to 
dine  at  the  House  of  Commons.  The  party  consisted  of  his 
daughter,  T.  P.,  Justin  Huntly  M'Carthy,  and  myself.  I 
thought  I  had  never  heard  such  brilliant,  gay,  witty  con- 


I  BECOME  ENGAGED  143 

versation  —  they  flashed  together  like  meteors.  Justin 
Huntly  and  T.  P.  were  like  two  accomplished  fencers.  As  I 
was  fresh  from  America  where,  even  if  men  can  talk,  they 
rarely  do  if  women  are  present,  allowing  them  to  absorb  all 
the  conversation  and  all  the  attention,  the  dinner  was  a 
perfect  revelation  to  me. 

Colonel  Mitchell  and  T.  P.  came  to  see  me  every  day,  and 
sometimes  twice  a  day.  They  had  an  opportunity  of 
becoming  better  acquainted,  but  they  were  never  congenial, 
and  when  I  finally  announced  my  engagement  to  T.  P., 
Colonel  Mitchell  was  distinctly  pessimistic  about  the  future, 
giving  me  an  exceedingly  long  list  of  unhappy  international 
marriages.  This  was,  however,  a  matter  of  six  weeks  later, 
after  I  had  been  to  Paris  and  again  to  Ireland.  I  remained 
ten  days  in  London  before  starting  for  America.  The  time 
was  entirely  taken  up  by  arguments  between  T.  P.  and 
myself  as  to  whether  I  should  be  married  then  or  at  all,  or 
the  following  summer  when  I  was  coming  to  Europe  again. 
Mrs  Agnew  had  said,  "  If  you  are  going  to  marry  Elizabeth, 
do  it  now,  as  she  might  change  her  mind."  This  enhanced 
my  value  in  the  eyes  of  T.  P.,  who  loves  uncertainty  and 
change,  and  it  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  using  his  persua- 
sive powers,  which  are  very  great  and  of  which  he  has  every 
reason  to  be  proud.  I  felt  like  yielding  more  than  once,  but 
resisted.  He  could  not  leave  Parliament  and  his  work  and 
accompany  me  to  America,  and  it  seemed  so  foolish  to  be 
married  one  day  and  return  to  America  the  next,  and  I  had 
never  been  separated  from  my  little  son  longer  than  a  week, 
until  then,  and  was  aching  to  see  him  again — so  I  stood  firm. 

One  evening  T.  P.  appeared,  and  was  transcendentally 
charming  and  agreeable.  Presently  he  took  from  his  pocket 
an  important  looking  official  document,  which  proved  to  be 
a  special  licence  for  our  marriage  the  next  day  !  Oh,  how 
magnificently  he  talked  and  argued,  and  how  I  laughed  ! 
A  special  licence,  without  one  word  of  consultation  with  me  ! 
We  were  to  be  married  in  St  Margaret's  Church,  West- 
minster— it  was  not  to  be  announced — and  later,  on  my 
return  from  America,  we  were  to  be  married  again  in  the 


i44  I  MYSELF 

Catholic  Church.  His  chief  argument  for  the  marriage  was 
that  he  was  engaged  on  a  novel,  "  Dead  Man's  Island  " 
(afterwards  published  in  an  Irish  paper  and  never  a  great 
success,  but  some  very  brilliant  writing  in  it  nevertheless), 
and  that  he  must  have  no  uncertainties  in  his  life  while  he 
was  doing  it.  I  had  read  the  beginning  of  the  romance — 
found  it  too  sombre  in  hue  for  success,  and  did  not  feel 
that  even  his  getting  married  would  add  gaiety  to  the  book, 
so  I  said,  no,  we  must  wait  until  my  return  from  America. 
He  folded  up  the  special  licence  hopefully,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  and  said  if  I  was  not  to  wear  a  wedding  ring  at  least 
I  must  have  an  engagement  ring,  and  would  I  meet  him  at 
the  Army  and  Navy  Stores  the  next  day — which  I  did,  and 
chose  a  modest  little  turquoise  ring  which  cost,  I  remember, 
eight  pounds,  and  it  pleased  me  as  much  as  if  the  price  had 
been  eighty.  I  knew  T.  P.'s  income  was  small,  and  did  not 
allow  him  to  carry  out  his  wish  and  buy  diamonds  which  I 
was  sure  he  could  not  afford. 

When  we  left  the  Stores  he  placed  my  hand  in  his  arm  and 
grasped  it  tightly  with  the  other  hand.  "  Now,"  he  said, 
"  you  must  come  to  church  with  me  for  a  moment." 

I  objected,  and  laughed  so  contagiously,  the  people  we 
passed  laughed  in  sympathy.  We  arrived  in  a  few  moments 
at  St  Margaret's,  and  interviewed  a  very  ancient  sexton. 
T.  P.  said,  "  I  am  coming  here  on  Friday  at  n  o'clock  to  be 
married — have  the  clergyman  and  witnesses  ready." 

The  old  man  answered  indifferently,  "  All  right." 

Then  I  said,  "  I'm  afraid  the  gentleman  won't  come  on 
Friday  as  the  lady  he  is  to  marry  is  very  ill." 

The  old  man  paid  no  attention  to  me,  but  turned  his  weak 
old  eyes  on  T.  P.  and  asked,  "  Are  you,  or  are  you  not,  going 
to  get  married  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  T.  P.  answered  firmly. 

I  was  almost  suffocated  with  laughing,  but  managed  to 
say,  disconnectedly,  "  If  the  lady  is  worse  you  can't  marry 
here — you  will  have  to  be  married  at  her  bedside." 

"  We  will  be  here  Friday,"  T.  P.  confidently  replied. 

The  old  man  meantime  had  been  examining  T.  P.  carefully, 


I  BECOME  ENGAGED  145 

and  he  asked  querulously,  "  Ain't  you  the  gentleman  as  was 
going  to  be  married  this  morning  and  didn't  come  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  T.  P.,  unabashed. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  ?  "  the  old  man  grumbled. 

In  the  middle  of  uncontrollable  laughing  I  gasped  out, 
"  The  lady  was  so  ill." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  T.  P.,  "  Friday  " — and  we  went  away. 

I  forget  what  I  did  on  that  particular  day,  but  it  was  not 
the  business  of  getting  married.  I  think  I  went  with 
Colonel  Mitchell  to  buy  a  steamer  trunk,  and  by  way  of 
making  myself  agreeable  I  said  to  him,  "  What  a  fine  figure 
you  have  !  How  tall  are  you  ?  "  And  he  answered,  "  Six 
feet  two,  but  I  don't  look  so  tall,  as  my  figure  is  perfectly 
proportioned — have  you  noticed  it  ?  " 

Men  are  really  appealing  in  their  vanity — it  is  so  simple, 
childlike,  and  unafraid.  Ah  well !  This  "  perfectly  pro- 
portioned "  being  was  a  gallant,  kind,  unselfish,  honourable, 
high-minded  gentleman,  and  it  was  only  his  innocent  vanity 
that  was  out  of  proportion. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

A  SHIPWRECK— LEAVING  MY  FRIENDS 

A  crisis  reveals  man's  true  nature,  and  often  dissipates  the  myth  of 
his  chivalry  to  woman. 

I  LEFT  T.  P.  to  deal  with  clergyman,  witnesses  and 
sexton,  and  on  Saturday  I  sailed  for  America.  This 
was  in  January,  and  the  following  June  I  found  it  very 
difficult  to  leave  my  friends  and  to  return  to  England  again. 

One  of  the  compensations  of  poverty  is  disinterested 
friendship.  When  you  have  neither  money,  nor  hospitality, 
nor  time,  nor  service  of  any  kind  to  offer  your  friends,  and 
they  love  you,  and  all  the  favours  and  advantages  are  on 
their  side,  you  are  sure  of  pure,  unalloyed  affection.  This 
was  my  position.  I  had  been  very  poor,  and  very  busy, 
and  badly  dressed,  and  often  tired,  and  sometimes  sad,  but 
I  had  my  little  circle  of  intimate,  devoted  friends,  of  whose 
life  I  formed  a  part,  as  even  in  busy  New  York  I  saw  them 
almost  every  day. 

Dr  Walter  Gillette  had  literally  snatched  me  from  the  jaws 
of  death  only  the  summer  before,  and  there  was  Mrs  Clark 
who  had  been  a  mother  to  me — a  woman  whose  heart  was 
pure  gold — and  her  son,  Max,  who  stood  almost  as  near  to  me 
as  my  own  child.  When  Max  was  a  baby  his  mother  sailed 
from  New  York  to  California,  and  the  boat  struck  a  rock 
in  the  Pacific  Ocean  some  hundreds  of  miles  from  San 
Francisco,  and  the  whole  crew  were  landed  on  a  tiny  island 
covered  with  ashes — not  a  drop  of  water  or  a  blade  of  grass. 
Luckily  the  boat  did  not  go  to  pieces  at  once.  They  got  the 
evaporating  machine  for  making  fresh  water  from  salt — a 
sorry  business  at  best,  as  the  water  remains  brackish,  and 

146 


A  SHIPWRECK— LEAVING  MY  FRIENDS    147 

never  water  enough  to  quench  thirst.  Even  on  this  desert 
island  with  death  staring  them  in  the  face,  some  ladies  elected 
to  be  exclusive,  and  declined  lying  near  the  filles  de  joie — 
for  the  people  were  packed  together  like  sardines  at  night. 
My  friend  with  Max,  who  was  then  a  baby,  surrounded  her- 
self with  these  ladies,  and  she  said  they  behaved  like  heroines, 
particularly  one,  who  gave  her  share  of  water  to  the  children 
until  her  tongue  was  swollen,  blackened  and  cracked  from 
want  of  it.  Mrs  Clark  was  possessed  of  a  courage  worthy  of 
Napoleon.  She  was  full  of  hope  all  through  the  terrible  ten 
days  or  fortnight  which  they  spent  on  the  island — and  at 
dawn  one  morning,  far,  far  away,  she  saw  a  thin  haze  of  blue 
smoke.  At  first  she  thought  it  was  her  imagination,  but  the 
smoke  grew  bluer,  and  then  a  ship  came  in  sight,  and  finally 
it  saw  their  signals  of  distress.  She  then  awoke  the  Captain, 
told  the  good  news,  and  they  were  eventually  rescued.  The 
Pacific  Mail  Steamship  Company  afterwards  gave  her  a  set  of 
silver  in  appreciation  of  her  courage. 

Only  in  a  crisis  is  the  true  nature  of  a  man  or  woman 
revealed.  Mrs  Clark  told  me  of  one  man,  so  gallant  and 
flirtatious  to  the  women  on  board,  who  when  the  one  to  whom 
he  had  shown  the  most  compromising  attentions  rushed  to 
him  after  the  ship  struck  the  rock,  screaming,  "  Save  me, 
save  me  !  "  pushed  her  from  him  roughly,  saying,  "  Go 
away,  woman,"  and  swiftly  leaped  into  the  first  life-boat 
lowered,  only  to  be  ordered  out  by  the  Doctor,  who  stood 
with  pistol  in  hand  calling  out,  "  The  women  and  children 
first !  The  next  man  who  gets  in  the  boat  I'll  shoot  like  a 
dog  !  "  And  he  did  shoot  one  sailor,  and  that  restored 
order. 

Her  great  courage  and  her  great  heart  made  me  cling  to 
my  friend,  and  there  never  was  a  boy  so  lovable,  so  honest 
and  honourable,  and  truthful,  and  studious,  and  kind  as  Max, 
and  he  occupied  the  place  of  an  elder  brother  to  Toodie.  It 
was  really  heart-breaking  to  leave  these  and  other  friends. 
I  remember  going  one  night  to  a  restaurant  for  oysters  with 
General  Kirkland,  one  of  my  truest  and  most  understanding 
comrades,  and  H.  S.  N.,  whose  tender  friendship  for  me  dated 


148  I  MYSELF 

from  the  days  when  we  were  both  pink-cheeked  youngsters. 
When  we  sat  down  to  supper  General  Kirkland  looked  at  me 
regretfully  and  said,  "  It's  a  pity  the  little  woman  is  engaged 
to  an  Irishman.  We  are  going  to  lose  her.  Do  you  want  to 
marry  her,  N.  ?  " 

H.  S.  N.  flushed  up,  but  stood  to  his  guns  like  a  man  and 
said,  "  Yes,  General,  I  do." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  do  it  ?  "  said  General  Kirkland. 
"  You  know  I  love  her  better  than  any  woman  in  the  world, 
but  I  dreamed  last  night  I  was  married  to  her,  and  I  tell  you, 
sir,  I  woke  up  the  whole  of  Fifth  avenue  with  my  screams." 
He  continued,  "  Does  T.  P.  consider  you  a  type  ?  " 

I  said,  "  Oh,  I  don't  know — I  suppose  so." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  will  you  give  him  a  message  from  me  ? 
Will  you  tell  him  that  you  are  the  only  thing  of  the  kind  in 
the  country  !  " 

I  can  always  enjoy  any  amount  of  humour  at  my  own 
expense,  even  when  there  is  a  strong  suspicion  of  truth 
attached  to  it,  and  administered  in  generous  doses,  if  it  be 
without  malice.  There  is  nothing  that  creates  such  quick 
intimacy  or  such  thorough  understanding  as  appreciation 
of  the  same  joke,  and  my  friends  are  welcome  to  laugh  at  my 
peculiarities  and  eccentricities  any  day  if  they  will  only 
love  me. 

"  The  world  is  filled  with  folly  and  sin,  and  love  must  cling  where 

it  may, 
For  Beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win,  but  one  isn't  loved  every  day." 

People  with  a  sense  of  humour  are  hungrier  for  affection 
than  those  without  it.  For  at  heart  they  are  often  both  lonely 
and  sad.  Life  seen  through  comic  spectacles  is  an  amusing, 
but  not  an  edifying  sight.  Tears  can  quiver  just  behind 
laughter.  You  do  not  want  to  murder  if  you  are  a  comedian, 
but  you  can  long  to  die.  My  friend,  William  Kirkland,  was  a 
born  humorist,  but  life  had  gone  very  awry  with  him.  He 
is  at  rest  now,  buried  in  Virginia.  I  am  glad  he  sleeps  in  the 
South,  where  the  mocking-bird  sings  and  the  honeysuckle 
blooms.  Only  necessity  brought  him  to  New  York,  and  he 


A  SHIPWRECK— LEAVING  MY  FRIENDS    149 

never  liked  the  noise  and  the  cold,  and  was  always  home-sick. 
Friendship  without  one  soupfon  of  sentiment  between  a 
woman  and  a  man  rarely  exists  in  England,  but  it  is  very 
common  in  America,  and  I  make  bold  to  say,  that  it  is  a 
woman's  strongest  inducement  to  virtue.  If  two  or  three  men 
genuinely  like  a  woman  with  frankness,  appreciation  and  trust, 
she  will  pause  before  she  betrays  the  trust.  Without  analysing 
the  position  she  feels  she  is  expected  to  uphold  an  ideal.  She 
stands  for  something  higher  and  better  in  womanhood  than 
surrender.  Mrs  Crawford,  the  brilliant  Paris  Correspondent 
of  "  Truth,"  my  good  and  consistent  friend,  says  I  have  a 
genius  for  friendship.  If  it  be  true,  it  is  my  only  genius. 
But  this  I  do  know — I  have  loved  my  friends  understand- 
ingly,  and  often  there  has  been  between  us  a  communion  of 
spirit  that  passeth  all  understanding  out  of  which  has  been 
born  an  indestructible  bond. 

My  idea  of  loyalty  in  friendship  is  best  illustrated  by  three 
street  boys  in  New  York.  Two  were  preparing  to  fight. 
One  turned  to  the  spectator  and  said,  "  Jim,  before  dis  yer 
fight  begins  is  you  fur  me  or  agin  me  ?  "  Jim  answered, 
"  Bill,  I'm  fur  you — but  you's  in  de  dead  wrong."  Now, 
when  my  friends  are  "  in  de  dead  wrong  "  that's  the  time 
I'm  "  fur  em  " — and  that's  the  time  I  want  them  to  "be 
fur  me."  Any  stranger  can  befriend  us  when  we  are  in  "  de 
dead  right."  At  one  time,  I  had  occasion  to  test  myself. 
It  was  during  the  period  of  the  Beecher-Tilton  trial.  I 
loved  Mr  Beecher,  firmly  believed  him  innocent  of  all 
wrong,  took  my  stand  on  that,  and  I  never  read  one  word 
of  the  testimony.  "If,"  an  astute  judge  asked  me,  "he  is 
guilty  ?  "  "  Then,"  I  said,  "  he  is  truly  noble,  for,  believing 
in  God  and  practising  that  belief  all  his  life,  yet  he  has  com- 
mitted perjury,  not  to  cast  people  out  in  the  dark  of  weaker 
faith  than  himself."  "  What  sophistry  !  "  the  judge  said. 
"  But  what  an  obdurate  friend  !  "  According  to  my  code 
not  even  marriage  has  greater  obligations  than  friendship. 

American  men  like  women  as  friends,  comrades,  com- 
panions— as  human  beings  quite  apart  from  sex.  The 
American  man  likes  one  woman — he  loves  another  woman. 


i5o  I  MYSELF 

Very  frequently  his  marriage  does  not  interfere  with  his 
friendship,  which  resembles  in  many  respects  the  friendship 
between  men. 

Englishmen  (I  am  not  speaking  of  the  exceptions)  like 
women  as  wives  and  sweethearts,  not  much  as  mothers  and 
sisters,  .  and  their  friendships,  intellectual,  personal  and 
political,  are  with  other  men.  This  is  the  reason  doubtless 
why  they  have  such  superficially  bad  manners  with  women. 
In  trouble  they  can  be  and  are  kind,  helpful,  and  even 
chivalrous,  but  life  is  not  altogether  made  up  of  trouble,  and 
I  think  the  forward  way  some  Englishmen  use  their  legs  and 
loll  at  ease,  in  House  of  Commons  attitudes,  before  women  is 
most  objectionable.  Who  would  ever  think  of  describing 
the  best  mannered  Englishman  as  deferential  to  women — 
and  yet  many  foreign  and  American  men  are. 

The  fact  is  the  point  of  view  of  an  Englishman  and  an 
American  is  exactly  opposite.  The  American  man  expects 
to  make  his  wife  happy — the  Englishman  expects  his  wife  to 
make  him  happy.  If  he  is  happy,  he  thinks  she  should  be  so 
too  in  the  contemplation  of  his  happiness.  There  is  a  story 
vouched  for  in  an  American  hotel.  An  Englishman  travel- 
ling with  his  wife  ordered  two  birds  to  be  brought  for  their 
supper.  The  waiter  returned  saying  there  was  only  one  bird 
left.  The  Englishman  then  asked,  "  What  is  my  wife 
going  to  have  ?  " 

When  he  falls  in  love,  however,  and  while  he  remains  in 
love,  an  Englishman  is  probably  more  generous  to  the  object 
of  his  affections  than  an  American,  and  by  all  odds  more 
trusting.  Two  of  my  friends,  for  example,  without  introduc- 
tions, have  married  from  the  Burlington  Arcade  ;  one  of  them, 
a  smart  young  officer  in  the  Grenadier  Guards,  had  danced 
and  flirted  his  share,  but  trustfully  accepted  the  version 
of  her  life  from  a  russet-haired  lady  who  casually  bid  him 
good  day,  as  he  was  going  to  buy  silk  socks.  He  married  her, 
and  of  course  subsequently  he  divorced  her.  An  American 
man  would  have  been  quizzical  over  her  story,  and  even  if  in 
love,  he  would  certainly  not  have  married  her.  The  other 
man,  a  sailor,  had  had  even  a  wider  experience  with  the  fair 


A  SHIPWRECK— LEAVING  MY  FRIENDS    151 

sex  than  the  Guardsman,  and  he  is  both  handsome  and 
charming  and  might  have  married  almost  anybody — but  a 
pretty,  black  eyed  little  foreigner  eating  bonbons  said  as  he 
passed,  "  Will  you  have  a  sweet  ?  "  And  he  said,  "  Yes," 
and  married  her.  He  is  divorced  also.  And  ridiculous  as 
these  marriages  are,  both  these  men  are  possessed  of  an 
innate  generosity  and  chivalry,  or  these  women  would  have 
been  passing  episodes.  The  frank  indifference,  the  good 
looks  and  the  manliness  of  the  average  Englishman  are 
valuable  weapons  for  arousing  the  interest  of  an  American 
woman,  but  there  are  very  few  successful  international 
marriages,  English  or  European.  An  American  woman's  best 
chance  of  happiness  is  with  one  of  her  own  countrymen.  In 
many  things  their  point  of  view  and  opinions  must  be  the 
same,  while  with  different  nationalities  the  situation  is 
pithily  summed  up  by  Graham  Robertson  in  "  Pinkie  and  the 
Fairies,"  when  Elf  Pickle  is  discoursing  his  wise  philosophy. 
Elf  Pickle  :  "  Point  of  view,  you  know.  You  see  me  and  say, 
'  That's  fairy  Pickle  of  course.'  Gregory  stares  me  in  the 
face  and  says,  '  Of  course  that  isn't  Fairy  Pickle,  that's  a 
grasshopper.' '  It's  just  point  of  view.  And  that  is  where  all 
the  unhappiness  and  misery  steps  in.  How  can  two  people 
be  happy  when,  looking  at  the  same  object,  one  sees  a  fairy 
and  the  other  a  grasshopper  ?  For  example,  an  American 
woman  who  has  been  brought  up  to  regard  divorce  from  an 
enlightened  point  of  view  marries  and  goes  to  Italy  to  live, 
where  divorce  is  non-existent.  Her  Marquis  can  leave  her 
temporarily  and  flaunt  the  most  celebrated  cosmopolitan 
beauty  in  her  face,  and  she  is  helpless.  Her  independent 
soul,  and  her  younger  and  more  courageous  civilization,  are 
defied  and  set  at  nought.  And  even  in  England  the  divorce 
law,  as  it  exists  now,  is  an  insult  to  all  womanhood.  The 
man  divorces  his  wife  for  unfaithfulness  ;  the  wife  must  have 
combined  unfaithfulness  and  cruelty — and  moral  cruelty  is 
physical  cruelty,  because  it  leads  to  nervous  prostration  and 
illnessess  of  divers  sorts,  to  be  borne  by  the  woman  whose 
husband  is  unfaithful — and  not  only  unfaithful,  but  gener- 
ally unjust,  and  unkind,  at  the  same  time.  Men  are  more 


i52  I  MYSELF 

simple  and  unsuspicious  than  women.  A  clever  adventuress 
can  play  upon  a  man  as  upon  a  responsive  instrument. 
When  the  wife  is  honest  and  the  adventuress  dishonest,  the 
wife  must  inevitably  go  to  the  wall  and  get  the  worst  of  it, 
and  yet  she  has  no  redress  unless  her  husband  strikes  her. 
She  is  bound  hand  and  foot,  not  only  to  him  but  to  her 
enemy,  the  third  partner  in  the  concern.  Much  immorality 
would  cease  if  the  divorce  law  of  England  was  amended 
and  made  equal  between  the  sexes.  Now,  a  wife  is  not  nearly 
so  well  protected  as  an  ordinary  partner  in  an  ordinary 
business.  There,  at  least,  taking  in  a  third  partner,  without 
the  consent  of  the  other  two,  would  dissolve  the  firm.  But 
in  marriage  this  rank  and  hideous  injustice  is  done  every 
day,  and  the  law  of  an  old  and  intelligent  country  allows  it. 
Certainly  women  in  England  are  right  in  clamouring  for  a 
vote.  Many  injustices  are  crying  to  them  for  reformation. 
Lady  Aberdeen,  that  large-minded,  noble  and  admirable 
woman,  who  is  so  deeply  concerned  over  the  advancement  of 
her  sex,  will  assuredly  have  done  much  good  at  the  Universal 
Congress  for  Women  held  recently  in  Canada,  one  of  the  sub- 
jects for  discussion  being  the  advisability  of  a  woman  keeping 
her  own  nationality  after  marriage.  It  is  a  monstrous  thing 
that  a  woman  should  lose  her  country  as  well  as  her  name 
on  her  marriage.  These  questions  had  not  occupied  me  so 
deeply  in  America,  although  I  became  a  Suffragist  as  soon  as 
I  began  to  work  for  my  living.  When  fifteen  pounds  a  month 
was  paid  me,  for  exactly  the  same  amount  of  work  for  which 
a  man  received  twenty-five  this  obvious  and  practical 
injustice  instantly  converted  me  to  Woman's  Suffrage.  A 
Republican  form  of  government  is  the  best,  but  even  we  have 
many  laws  for  women  which  need  amendment.  And  the 
women  have  already  begun  to  work  to  amend  them.  ; 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

I  GET  MARRIED 

AFTER   all,  we   in  America   are   a  young  and   un- 
disciplined  country,    but   we   can  take  the  very 
worst  elements  from  older  civilizations  and  in  a 
few  months  turn  them  into  creditable  law-abiding  citizens, 
ready  to  shoulder  a  musket  in  defence  of  their  country.     Can 
any  other  nation  do  as  much  ?     We  do  it  by  optimism.     We 
create  an  atmosphere  of  self-respect,  equality  and  hope, 
where  the  hopeless  become  self-respecting,  and  the  down- 
trodden find  equality.     Give  a  man  back  his  self-respect, 
and  his  reformation  has  begun. 

I  gave  up  a  great  deal  when  I  gave  up  my  country,  for  I 
love  it.  I  love  its  boisterous  youth  and  its  progress  and  its 
great  possibilities.  But  I  believed  in  T.  P.  and  in  Home 
Rule,  and  I  had  been  brought  up  by  my  father  to  love 
England  and  the  English,  and  I  felt  I  should  be  happy  in 
England — and  so  one  lovely  May  day,  with  a  crowd  of 
friends  to  see  me  off,  my  little  son  and  I  stood  on  the  deck 
of  a  White  Star  steamer,  and  long  before  the  land  faded 
away,  my  blinding  tears  had  hidden  it  from  my  sight.  It 
was  a  happy  voyage  ;  three  old  friends  were  on  board,  the 
weather  was  lovely,  and  T.  P.  met  us  at  Queenstown.  He 
paid  small  attention  in  those  days  to  his  appearance,  and  I 
remember  thinking  how  quickly  I  should  change  the  cut  of 
his  trousers  and  the  cut  of  his  hair.  Toodie  (who  was  then 
ten  years  old)  and  I  had  many  long  talks  about  my 
getting  married.  He  had  a  friend  in  New  York  whom 
he  preferred  as  a  stepfather.  He  said,  "  He  has  given 
me  rabbits  and  dogs,  and  anyhow,  if  he  hadn't,  I  would 


i54  I  MYSELF 

love  him,  and  I  do  love  him.  Why  don't  you  marry 
him  ?  " 

I  said,  "  Well,  you  see  he  plays  cards  all  night  long,  and 
we  would  be  so  tired  sitting  up  until  the  morning  waiting 
for  him  to  come  home." 

"  But,"  said  Toodie,  "  if  we  both  try  can't  we  keep  him 
in  nights  ?  " 

I  said  it  would  be  perfectly  impossible,  and  then  the  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks  and  he  said  regretfully,  "  Well,  I  wish 
you  hadn't  let  me  get  so  attached  to  him." 

Then  I  told  him  how  good  T.  P.  was,  how  truthful  and 
honourable,  what  a  good  example  he  would  be,  and  that  he 
was  very,  very  kind,  and  loved  children,  but  I  said,  "  If  you 
don't  like  him  I  wouldn't  think  of  marrying  him.  You  and 
I  are  quite  alone  in  the  world — I,  the  only  mother,  and  you 
the  only  son — and  somebody  must  give  his  consent  to  my 
getting  married,  and  nothing  must  ever  come  between  us 
or  separate  us,  so  if  you  don't  like  T.  P.  say  so,  and  back  we 
go  to  America." 

He  was  a  most  deliberate  and  thoughtful  child,  and  said 
he  would  get  to  know  T.  P.  and  think  it  over.  Every  day 
I  said,  "  Now  mind,  nothing  will  induce  me  to  marry  T.  P. 
unless  you  give  your  consent  and  unless  you  like  him." 

After  thinking  it  over  he  said  he  did,  and  added,  "  He 
must  be  a  gentleman,  because,"  he  said  quite  seriously,  "  all 
the  O'Connors  are  the  descendants  of  Kings — Pie  is  a  born 
Imperialist] — and  Kings  are  always  the  first  gentlemen." 
After  having  freely  given  his  consent  he  refused,  however,  to 
go  to  the  wedding.  He  said,  "  I  do  give  my  consent,  and 
I'm  sure  we  will  be  happy  with  him,  but  somehow,"  and  the 
tears  came  in  his  eyes,  "  I  don't  want  to  see  you  married. 
Now  run  along  and  get  married,  and  come  back  and  tell  me 
so,  and  I'll  wait  here  in  the  flat  for  you." 

I  turned  obediently  to  do  his  bidding  and  he  called  me 
back  and  pinned  a  rose  on  my  dress  and  said,  "  I  want  to 
love  you  a  minute,  God  bless  you  " — and  after  a  long 
squeeze  T.  P.  and  I  and  his  sister  went  off  to  a  quiet  little 
church  in  Horseferry  Road,  and  we  were  married.  Dear 


I  GET  MARRIED  155 

Justin  M'Carthy  gave  me  away,  a  few  friends  wished  us  luck, 
and  then  we  went  back  to  the  flat  and  to  Toodie  and  began 
housekeeping.  T.  P.  who  at  the  last  minute  was  writing  an 
article  with  the  boy  in  his  study  waiting  for  copy,  had 
forgotten  the  wedding  ring,  so  there  was  a  slight  wait  while 
Mary  O'Connor  rushed  to  the  Stores  to  get  it,  and  really 
we  have  been  rushing  to  the  Stores  for  forgotten  things  ever 
since.  Toodie  had  decorated  the  flat  in  our  absence,  and 
was  very  tactful  on  our  return. 

And  now  London  was  to  be  my  home.  The  first  three 
months  of  our  married  life  we  lived  in  T.  P.'s  small  flat  in 
Parliament  Mansions,  Victoria  Street.  How  businesslike 
it  looks  now,  but  twenty-five  years  ago  it  was  occupied  as 
residential  apartments.  There  was  one  large  living  room, 
a  library  for  T.  P.,  and  four  or  five  bedrooms.  Mary  O'Connor 
(now  Mrs  William  O'Malley)  T.  P.'s  youngest  sister,  formed 
part  of  the  household.  She  was  a  very  amiable,  attractive 
girl,  with  the  traditional  Irish  eyes,  bright  blue  with  black 
eyebrows  and  lashes,  a  charming  quality  of  voice,  and  an 
ever  present  touch  of  persuasiveness  in  the  full-flavoured 
Irish  brogue.  She  had  the  proud  distinction  of  having  been 
in  prison  during  the  Land  League  struggles,  and  she  had 
behaved  with  great  determination  and  valour — so  she  was 
quite  a  heroine  among  the  Irish.  No  one  ever  possessed  a 
sweeter  or  more  unselfish  nature  than  hers,  or  had  a  brighter 
or  more  hopeful  outlook  on  life.  Among  the  blackest  clouds 
the  silver  lining  always  peeped  forth  for  her,  and  she  has  made 
life  happier  for  all  who  have  come  into  contact  with  her. 

The  flat  was  too  small  for  us,  and  we  moved  in  September 
to  38  Grosvenor  Road,  a  house  on  the  river  Thames.  What 
a  constant  interest  the  river  was  !  It  was  a  pretty  little 
house — my  first  home  in  six  years — and  I  loved  it,  and  took 
root  at  once.  My  household  gods  and  books  were  sent 
from  America — among  them  some  really  valuable  colonial 
furniture,  and  silver  that  had  been  made  in  Virginia,  quite 
simple,  but  heavy  and  everlasting  (now,  alas,  gone  by  the 
nimble  hand  of  the  burglar  !). 

Feeling  was  still  running  high  against  Home  Rule,  and 


156  I  MYSELF 

these  big  cases  arriving  from  New  York  addressed  to  Mrs 
T.  P.  O'Connor  contained,  the  authorities  conjectured, 
what  ?  Especially  as  some  imaginative  woman  in  Belfast 
had  started  the  rumour  that  in  America  I  was  the  leader  of  a 
Fenian  band — I  who  scarcely  numbered  an  Irishman  among 
my  acquaintance  !  So  long  iron  spikes  were  run  cautiously 
through  the  boxes  to  see,  I  suppose,  if  they  contained 
dynamite  or  infernal  machines — and  the  face  of  "  The  Madre 
Isabella  Philomena  Mehea  Iturbede  "  was  seriously  injured. 
This  picture  was  a  portrait  given  to  me  by  a  friend  who  had 
lived  in  Mexico  and  done  some  service  to  the  then  President 
of  the  Republic,  for  which  he  had  been  rewarded  by  a  copy 
of  the  original  portrait  of  this  celebrated  nun.  She  was 
the  founder  of  an  order,  and  was  so  talented  that  she  was 
known  as  the  Tenth  Muse — being  a  poet,  a  musician,  a 
linguist,  a  diplomatist  and  a  wonderful  business  woman. 
She  died  leaving  the  order  rich  in  Convents  and  leagues  of 
land.  The  portrait  had  been  presented  to  me  as  a  con- 
ventionalized likeness  of  myself.  It  was  as  I  should  have 
been  if  Nature  had  been  more  kind.  How  I  wept  when  I 
saw  the  hole  in  Donna  Isabella's  cheek  !  But  a  clever 
restorer  made  it  as  good  as  new,  only  there  was  the  bill  to 
pay,  and  we  were  dreadfully  poor  in  those  days.  Every 
shilling  had  to  be  counted.  We  had  only  one  servant,  and 
I  swept  and  dusted,  and  made  beds,  and  cleaned  silver,  and 
made  salads  (I  am  not  a  cook) ,  and  hunted  up  a  small  dress- 
maker who  went  out  to  work  by  the  day,  and  all  our  dresses 
were  made  in  the  house.  (Neither  am  I  a  dressmaker  !) 
They  were  not  conspicuous  successes,  but  we  wore  them, 
Mary  and  I,  with  happy  hearts,  for  we  were  young  and  full 
of  hope,  and  poverty,  with  the  management  of  a  small 
income,  is  a  very  engrossing  occupation.  The  house  looked 
quite  pretty  when  finished,  although  it  was  decidedly 
original  and  somewhat  incongruous.  The  drawing  room 
curtains  in  their  day  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and  had 
draped  immense  windows  in  America.  In  our  small  house 
they  looked  decidedly  relics  of  departed  grandeur,  but  we 
came  very  near  not  having  them  at  all.  In  the  innocence 


I  GET  MARRIED  157 

of  my  heart  and  ignorance  of  London  prices  I  sent  them  to 
Pullar's  to  be  cleaned,  and  they  were  returned  with  a  bill 
of  five  pounds  to  be  collected  on  delivery  !  The  house 
and  everyone  in  it  was  guiltless  of  five  pounds.  So  the  man 
took  them  away,  and  I  wrote  and  formally  presented  them  to 
Pullar's  Dye  Works.  They  refused  my  present,  preferring 
the  five  pounds,  and  then  ensued  a  lively  correspondence, 
in  which  I  blithely  persisted  in  my  generosity,  and  in  which 
Pullar  visibly  weakened,  until  at  last  the  curtains  reappeared 
with  a  quite  collapsed  bill.  When  the  man  brought  them  he 
asked  the  "  general "  if  he  could  deliver  them  in  person,  as 
he  wanted  to  see  the  only  customer  for  whom  the  firm  had 
reduced  a  bill  in  his  recollection.  It  was  an  encouragement 
for  me  to  go  on  in  well-doing,  and  I  have  never  forgotten  it. 
The  drawing-room  carpet,  I  remember,  was  a  great 
problem.  I  didn't  want  a  Brussels  carpet,  and  I  could  not 
afford  an  Axminster,  and  my  tidy  soul  revolted  at  felt,  so 
what  was  to  be  done  ?  Luckily,  Henry  Norman  came  in 
to  tea  (now  Sir  Henry  Norman,  and  somewhat  grave,  with 
his  hair  thinning  on  the  top).  He  was  such  a  nice  boy  then, 
fresh  from  an  American  College,  and  just  settled  in  rooms 
at  the  Temple  ;  he  had  been  furnishing  himself,  and  he  was 
interested  in  every  possible  question  of  life.  I  never  saw 
such  an  eager  mind.  So  I  confided  to  him  the  crux  of  the 
carpet  and  we  went  upstairs  and  he  looked  at  the  room  and 
said  he  knew  the  exact  thing,  and  he  gave  me  the  name  and 
the  shop  and  said,  "  Mind  you  get  a  wine  colour  for  the 
curtains."  The  colour  was  to  make  up  for  lack  of  quality, 
and  I  did,  and  this  finished  off  the  room.  I've  forgotten 
the  name  of  the  carpet,  but  I  saw  some  of  it  not  long  ago,  and 
it  did  not  strike  me  as  very  pretty.  I  fear  I  have  outgrown 
it,  but  I  have  not  outgrown  Sir  Henry :  that  is  some  consola- 
tion. Only  I  see  him  too  rarely  to  profit  by  his  great  know- 
ledge on  an  infinite  variety  of  subjects,  which  when  he  attacks 
them  in  the  different  magazines  are  always  so  delightfully 
and  lucidly  dealt  with.  When  the  little  house  was  finished, 
it  was  fresh  and  pleasant,  and  became  very  dear  to  me, 
though  the  taste  of  its  furnishing  was  by  no  means  faultless. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

THE  UNPOPULARITY  OF  IRISH  POLITICS 

WHEN  I  was  first  married  and  came  to  England, 
twenty-five  years  ago,  Irish  politics  were  neither 
popular  nor  fashionable,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
Justin  M'Carthy,  who  had  been  in  constant  demand  at 
every  great  house  in  London,  as  a  charming  and  delightful 
conversationalist  and  famous  literary  man,  there  was 
scarcely  a  Nationalist  who  had  entered  an  English  house. 
Therefore  it  was  a  question  whether,  as  the  wife  of  an  Irish 
Member,  I  would  be  received  by  English  people  or  not. 

Justin  M'Carthy  was  a  very  old  friend  of  Lady  St  Helier 
(who  at  that  time  was  Mrs  Jeune)  and  spoke  of  me  in  kindly 
fashion  to  her,  and  she  left  cards  and  sent  an  invitation  to 
an  "  At  Home  "  immediately  afterwards.  In  those  days 
Lady  St  Helier  had  perhaps  the  best  known  salon  in  London. 
She  had  the  courage  of  her  convictions,  and  asked  whom  she 
pleased  to  her  house — and  even  the  great  personages,  who 
perhaps  in  private  life  would  have  held  themselves  apart 
from  some  of  the  gay  Bohemians  assembled  there,  were  at 
least  pleased  and  amused  to  see  them. 

I  was  fresh  from  America  at  this  time,  and  as  we  wore 
decoUet&e  gowns  only  at  balls  and  on  ceremonious  occasions,  I 
must  have  looked  very  modest  and  provincial  and  not  at  all 
fashionable — but  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  evening  I  quite 
forgot  my  disadvantage.  My  dress  had  been  fashioned  by 
most  loving  hands  in  America — an  Irish  dressmaker,  Mary 
Johnson,  who  had  taken  great  pains  with  it.  The  material 
was  a  heavy  ribbed  white  silk  made  with  a  modest  square 
neck.  The  silk  was  cut  out  in  points  and  softened  by  a  little 
158 


THE  UNPOPULARITY  OF  IRISH  POLITICS    159 

tulle  ruffle — the  sleeves  were  long,  plain,  very  tight,  and 
finished  in  the  same  way — the  skirt  was  perfectly  plain,  cut 
out  in  points  at  the  bottom,  and  a  little  frill  underneath. 
There  was  scarcely  any  train,  and  it  had  a  narrow  sash  tied 
at  one  side.  I  wore  no  jewellery  (I  had  none  at  the  time)  and 
carried  no  flowers,  so  I  must  have  presented  a  very  simple 
effect  in  the  midst  of  lovely  dresses  trimmed  with  lace  and 
many  magnificent  jewels  ;  but  to  be  under-dressed  is  a  thing 
that  has  never  troubled  me.  It  has  occurred  to  me  so  often 
in  my  life  that  I  suppose  I  have  grown  accustomed  to  it. 
At  any  rate  the  evening  was  a  delightful  one,  and  Justin 
M'Carthy  and  his  daughter  Charlotte  were  very  kind  in  intro- 
ducing me  to  various  well-known  people. 

Miss  M'Carthy  was  a  very  pretty  girl,  and  I  remember  her 
dress  quite  well,  as  it  was  rather  an  original  one  for  a  blonde 
to  have  chosen.  She  had  very  white  skin  and  amber- 
coloured  wavy  hair.  With  this  she  wore  white  satin  covered 
with  white  lace  and  looped  up  here  and  there  with  amber 
velvet  bows.  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  a  prettier  being. 

One  of  the  people  to  whom  she  introduced  me  was,  I 
remember,  Oscar  Wilde,  and  he  began  at  once  the  most 
brilliant  talk  about  America  and  American  women.  He 
said  he  had  seen  many  very  pretty  dainty  complete  and 
charming  women  in  America,  but  never  one  of  magnificent 
Goddess  of  Liberty  proportions,  and  he  thought  that,  new 
as  the  country  was,  we  should  dethrone  the  Goddess  of 
Liberty  and  have  a  French  Marquise  in  her  place,  as  being 
more  representative  of  the  country. 

I  was  then  quite  new  to  the  carelessness  of  English  etiquette, 
and  I  insisted  on  Mr  Wilde's  taking  me  to  have  a  few  words 
of  conversation  with  my  host,  as  in  America  we  were  par- 
ticular to  pay  special  attention  to  our  host  and  hostess. 
Mr  Wilde  assured  me  laughingly  that  Mr  Jeune  did  not  know 
I  was  there,  and  I  replied,  "  Quite  true  ;  I  don't  suppose  he 
knows  that  I  am  here,  but  I  know  that  he  is  there."  Where- 
upon Mr  Wilde  said  my  vernacular  proclaimed  me  Irish. 
I  told  him,  however,  that  I  had  no  Irish  blood,  but  was  of 
French  extraction,  and  he  said  that  was  the  next  best  thing. 


160  I  MYSELF 

He  then  presented  me  to  Mr  Jeune,  who  looked  rather  bored 
and  somewhat  sleepy,  but  very,  very  kind — and  when  I  told 
him  I  was  the  daughter  of  an  American  Judge  he  asked  my 
father's  name.  I  said,  "  Paschal,"  and  he  knew  of  "  Pas- 
chal's  Annotated  Constitution  of  the  United  States."  I 
afterwards  brought  him  a  copy  from  America  and  received 
such  an  appreciative  letter  of  thanks. 

The  evening  was  most  agreeable  and  friendly,  and  I  took 
an  enormous  fancy  to  Mrs  Jeune — but  in  all  that  large  crowd 
the  person  who  aroused  genuine  tenderness  in  my  heart  and 
a  desire  to  know  him  better  was  Mr  Jeune,  because  he  had 
spoken  of  my  father.  It  gave  me  a  feeling  of  real  happiness 
to  find  that  in  England  his  dear  name  was  not  unknown. 

Soon  after  Mrs  Jeune's  party  Charlotte  M'Carthy  brought 
Mrs  Labouchere  to  see  me.  A  little  boudoir  which  I  had 
tried  to  furnish  in  the  Japanese  style  was  just  finished,  and 
they  were  shown  in  there.  The  one  servant  brought  in  tea, 
which  Charlotte  poured  out  and  we  began  to  talk,  and  in 
spite  of  her  severe  scrutiny  I  felt  that  Mrs  Labouchere  and  I 
should  be  friends :  as  the  fortune  tellers  say,  "  she  would 
cross  my  path."  Her  eyes  of  grey-blue  were  quite  steady  in 
their  gaze,  and  she  seemed  to  be  looking  through  and  beyond 
me.  Her  manner  was  very  quiet  and  reserved,  but  she  asked 
us  to  spend  the  following  Sunday  at  Twickenham.  This  de- 
lighted me.  I  had  never  been  on  the  river,  and  Pope's  Villa 
with  its  carved  hah1  and  its  grotto  in  which  Pope  wrote  his 
"  Universal  Prayer "  was  historic,  that  prayer  that  has 
contained  some  crumb  of  comfort  for  every  distressed  soul — 
these  two  verses  alone  would  make  him  immortal : — 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see  ; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so 

Since  quickened  by  thy  breath  ; 
Oh,  lead  me  whereso'er  I  go, 

Through  this  day's  life  or  death. 


THE  UNPOPULARITY  OF  IRISH  POLITICS    161 

In  those  days  Mrs  Labouchere  was  a  noted  hostess,  getting 
just  the  right  people  together,  very  gay,  bright  and  witty, 
and  full  of  humour  herself,  and  Mr  Labouchere  was  always 
sparkling  and  scintillating,  so  whoever  was  asked  to  her 
house  went  quite  sure  of  being  amused  and  having,  in 
Americanese,  "  a  good  time."  The  guests  arrived  at  Twicken- 
ham about  twelve  or  one  o'clock,  sat  on  the  lawn  until  lunch 
was  served,  returned  to  the  lawn  for  coffee,  went  through  the 
grotto  to  the  other  side  of  the  garden  for  tea,  roamed  around, 
smoked,  told  stories — Mr  Labouchere  always  with  a  laughing 
circle  around  him — and  before  dinner  we  went  into  the 
house  to  brush  up,  morning  dress  being  always  the  rule,  for  the 
convenience  of  the  guests.  Then  dinner,  and  later  a  drive 
by  moonlight  or  starlight  to  London.  How  many,  many 
happy,  interested,  amused  hours  I  owe  to  Pope's  Villa  ! 
Last  year  when  I  was  staying  at  York  House,  the  Ratan 
Tata's  historic  place,  I  walked  over  to  the  now  empty 
house — it  seemed  to  echo  with  absent  voices,  and  I  wandered 
sadly  over  the  charming  garden,  so  full  of  memories.  "  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  "  and  "  The  Tempest  "  were  both 
given  there  with  great  beauty  and  success  —  but  that  was 
long  after  my  first  day  on  the  river. 

There  was  a  most  interesting  party  of  people  for  our  first 
dinner.  Mr  and  Mrs  Maxwell  (Miss  Braddon),  the  authoress 
of  "  Lady  Audley's  Secret,"  which  I  thought  and  still  think 
the  best  novel  of  the  kind  ever  written.  Mrs  Maxwell  was 
a  tall,  dignified  woman,  dressed  in  black  and  white,  her  face 
wore  a  very  kind  expression,  and  she  was  as  modest  and  as 
feminine  as  a  woman  who  had  done  nothing.  I  remember 
we  spoke  of  Mrs  Labouchere,  and  she  said  she  was  a  woman 
of  imagination  and  an  excellent  critic.  There  were  some 
straw  chairs  on  the  balcony  that  I  admired  very  much,  and 
Mr  Maxwell  undertook  to  send  me  one,  and  I  thought  of 
course  he  would  forget,  but  later  on  he  wrote  to  say  he 
regretted  very  much  but  the  last  chair  that  I  wanted  had 
been  sold. 

At  twilight  Mrs  Labouchere  and  I  went  upstairs  to  see 
Dora,  now  the  Marquesa  di  Rudini.     She  was  two  years  old 
ii 


162  I  MYSELF 

and  was  having  her  bath,  and,  as  the  darkies  say,  she  was  a 
lump  of  sweetness,  very  fat  and  solid,  quite  unabashed  and 
unafraid,  with  her  father's  dark  eyes  and  mischievous 
glances.  I  begged  one  or  two  nice  wet  soapy  kisses,  which 
she  gave  me  quite  willingly,  and  we  left  her  with  a  plump 
india-rubber  doll-baby  exactly  her  own  shape  to  finish  her 
bath. 

Beerbohm  Tree  and  his  wife  were  also  there.  She  wore  a 
picture  gown  of  cream  lace  and  a  Gainsborough  hat,  and  he 
was  most  agreeable  and  likable.  He  took  me  into  dinner,  and 
I  sat  next  Mr  Labouchere,  who  rather  damped  my  poetic 
enthusiasm  about  Pope's  Villa.  The  poet  had  certainly 
built  a  villa  on  that  site,  but  it  had  been  destroyed,  and  a 
worthy  Swiss  had  evidently  designed  and  built  the  present 
one.  This  did  not  prevent  the  servants  from  showing,  when 
the  family  was  absent,  the  bedroom  as  the  room  where  the 
poet  died,  to  sightseers,  and  from  reaping  considerable  benefit 
from  their  obligingness.  When  Pope  built  the  grotto  he  had 
been  sent  by  his  admirers  from  all  parts  of  the  world  bits  of 
malachite,  chrysophrase,  bloodstone,  onyx,  sardonyx,  the 
matrix  of  opal,  and  turquoise,  and  many  semi-precious 
stones,  with  which  he  adorned  the  grotto.  There  were  only 
two  left :  the  remainder  Mr  Labouchere  said  had  been  plucked 
by  the  enterprizing  tourist — the  American  probably,  as  he 
has  a  practical,  acquisitive  mind. 

The  happy  day  was  at  last  ended,  and  having  no  carriage 
we  went  home  in  the  train.  This  was  the  beginning  of  my 
friendship  with  the  Laboucheres  which  was  to  form  so  large 
a  part  of  my  life  in  London. 

They  were  then  living  in  Queen  Anne's  Gate,  a  delightful 
old  house  looking  on  to  St  James's  Park.  We  celebrated  our 
first  Christmas  dinner  with  them.  Among  the  guests  were 
Whistler,  Frank  Miles,  and  George  Augustus  Sala.  After 
dinner  we  played  like  so  many  children,  and  Whistler  said 
that  mistletoe  was  made  for  brides,  and  I  was  carried  under 
a  big  bunch  of  mistletoe  and  told  to  be  a  good  little  girl  and 
kiss  everybody  good  night.  I  refused  to  obey,  and  nobody 
dared  to  kiss  me  except  Whistler,  and  some  absurd  punish- 


THE  UNPOPULARITY  OF  IRISH  POLITICS    163 

ment  was  devised  for  me  by  the  others,  and  the  party  did  not 
break  up  until  one  o'clock.  That  was  twenty-five  years  ago, 
please  remember  ! 

Frank  Miles  was  very  handsome  and  agreeable,  and 
a  better  gardener  than  artist.  He  gave  Mrs  Langtry 
the  pretty  name  of  the  Jersey  Lily,  on  account  of  the 
way  her  head  drooped  like  a  flower  on  its  stem.  His 
father  had  a  fine  garden,  and  he  used  often  to  go  in  the 
country  just  for  the  sake  of  digging  and  planting,  and  was 
always  kind  in  sending  me  charming  country  nosegays.  He 
was  also  a  friend  of  the  M'Carthys  and  I  sometimes  met  him 
there.  At  this  time  they  had  a  house  in  Ebury  Street. 
Justin  said  it  was  a  very  nice  little  house,  but  there  was  no 
furniture  in  it.  They  went  in  one  dark  evening,  and  saw  a 
pretty  comfortable  room,  and  were  satisfied  with  this,  and 
confidingly  engaged  the  house,  but  when  they  came  to  live 
in  it  all  the  furniture  had  been  moved  for  that  one  occasion 
into  that  one  room. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

MY  MYTHICAL  REPUTATION 

"  I  was  a  princess  once,  and  my  talents  were  everywhere  sung  of. 
I  was  indebted  for  my  popularity  not  only  to  beauty  but  to  whit. 
Ah  !   where  is  the  destined  prince  that  is  to  come  to  liberate  and 
to  whoo  ?  "  THACKERAY 

JUSTIN  M'CARTHY  was  one  of  the  most  delightful  con- 
versationalists I  have  ever  known — a  perfect  encyclo- 
paedia of  information  ;  a  wonderful  memory,  with  any 
amount  of  prose  and  verse,  stored  away  for  immediate 
application ;  witty,  gentle,  and  kind,  he  was  universally 
popular.  Justin  Huntly  was  handsome  and  scintillatingly 
brilliant,  and  Charlotte  was  very  pretty,  and  an  excellent 
hostess,  one  of  her  accomplishments  being  that  of  a  carver. 
She  could  deftly  divide  a  partridge  or  a  duck  as  well  as  the 
most  accomplished  maitre  d'hdtel. 

Soon  after  we  were  married  we  had  a  few  friends  to  dine 
with  us,  among  them  a  very  conventional  American.  Char- 
lotte at  my  request  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  carved, 
and  very  cleverly  she  did  it.  The  American  went  to  Paris 
and  said  it  was  a  queer  household,  as  Miss  M'Carthy  sat  at 
the  head  of  the  table  and  did  the  honours,  but  Mrs  T.  P.  did 
not  seem  to  mind.  If  he  had  but  known,  he  was  lucky  to 
have  his  neat  morsel  of  chicken  cut  by  such  capable  hands, 
for  carving  is  not  one  of  my  accomplishments,  nor  is  it  T.  P.'s. 

The  M'Carthys'  household  was  a  delightful  one.  They 
were  all  humourists  and  determined  to  take  life  as  a  huge 
joke.  Justin  was  very  ill  at  one  time,  and  when  Mr  Curzon 
called,  the  stupid  little  parlour-maid  went  upstairs  and  said, 
"  Mr  Crusoe  would  like  to  see  you." 


MY  MYTHICAL  REPUTATION  165 

"  Would  he  ?  "  said  Justin.  "  Ask  him  up.  His  father 
was  a  very  eminent  mariner." 

One  day  at  lunch  T.  P.  was  complaining  of  his  chronic 
ill-health.  Justin  Huntly  laughingly  said,  "  T.  P.  you  are  a 
remarkable  speaker  and  a  remarkable  journalist,  but  above 
and  beyond  all,  a  remarkable,  indeed,  a  wonderful  invalid — 
always  very  ill,  but  at  the  same  time  perfectly  well,  and 
absolutely  robust.  I  shall  write  an  article  and  call  it  '  T.  P. 
the  Invalid.'  ' 

At  that  period  during  a  General  Election  T.  P.  could  untir- 
ingly make  seven  and  eight  speeches  a  day,  and  often  did, 
and  two  or  three  in  one  night,  keeping  up  the  pressure  for  six 
weeks,  and  being  perfectly  fresh  at  the  end  of  the  time. 
Indeed  his  health  would  improve  after  continual  activity 
and  work  that  would  have  worn  out  another  and  a  differ- 
ently constituted  man. 

Not  long  after  we  moved  to  Grosvenor  Road  there  was  a 
General  Election,  and  T.  P.  was  away  speaking  all  over  the 
country.  His  speeches  were  highly  commended  and  com- 
plimented, and  he  arrived  at  home  one  night  expecting  more 
praise,  when  almost  my  first  words  were,  "  I've  made  an 
awful  mistake  in  the  blue  wall-paper,  its  much  too  dark  and 
eats  up  all  the  light.  You  see  London  is  so  gloomy,  so  different 
from  America,  I  did  not  realize  that  when  I  chose  it." 

"  Really,"  T.  P.  said,  much  irritated,  "  and  not  one  word 
about  my  speeches.  Have  you  read  them  ?  " 

"  Not  all  of  them,"  I  answered,  "  and  the  dado  is  the  worst 
part — it's  much  darker  than  the  rest." 

"  What  is  a  dado  ?  "  said  T.  P.  "  And  this  is  the  interest 
you  take  in  my  career  !  " 

Just  then  came  the  postman's  knock,  the  mail  was  brought 
in,  and  on  opening  an  American  paper,  the  first  thing  that 
caught  my  eye  was  an  article  saying  there  were  three  women 
in  England  who  were  intelligent  politicians.  The  Baroness 
Burdett-Coutts,  Lady  Randolph  Churchill,  and  Mrs  T.  P. 
O'Connor — that  Mr  O'Connor  was  not  ashamed  to  acknow- 
ledge how  much  of  his  success  he  owed  to  his  wife,  who  had 
indeed  been  of  great  assistance  to  him,  in  planning  his  present 


166  I  MYSELF 

brilliant  election  tour.  I  handed  the  paper  to  T.  P.  and  said, 
"  You  see  I  am  made  a  politician  whether  I  am  one  or  not : 
the  American  papers  always  praise  their  absent  womenkind." 

T.  P.  read  the  article  with  rather  a  grim  smile,  and  said, 
"  This  fellow  does  not  know  your  interest  in  dadoes.  The 
American  papers  will  say  next  that  you  wrote  '  The  Parnell 
Movement.' ' 

There  is  nothing  indeed  in  life  that  has  amused  me  more 
than  my  own  reputation.  It  is  a  thing  I  have  stood  so  apart 
and  away  from,  and  it  is  so  utterly  unlike  the  real,  less 
interesting  me.  An  Irish  woman  said  to  me  once  "  Do  you 
write  '  M.  A.  P.'  ?  " 

I  thought  I  had  not  heard  her  aright,  and  replied,  "  You 
mean  do  I  write  in  '  M.  A.  P.'  ' 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  do  you  write  the  paper  ?  " 

I  asked,  "  Do  you  mean  from  cover  to  cover  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  heard  that  you  did." 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  this  is  very  interesting.  Tell  me  what 
else  you  have  heard  about  me." 

She  hesitated  a  moment  and  said,  "  Well  I  did  hear  that 
you  wrote  Mr  O'Connor's  political  speeches." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  don't,  but  I'll  tell  you  a  secret— I  did 
write  all  of  Mr  Gladstone's." 

The  lady  had,  although  an  Irishwoman,  only  a  small  sense 
of  humour,  and  I  left  her  looking  rather  bewildered. 

Another  friend  travelling  in  Ireland  was  told  that  it  was 
I  who  put  the  dynamite  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  that 
before  I  married  Mr  O'Connor  I  was  in  America  the  leader 
of  a  Fenian  band.  I  have  never  known  a  Fenian  band  (I 
hope  they  are  more  in  harmony  than  a  German  band,  but 
doubt  it)  and  I  don't  believe  if  I  had  they  would  have 
allowed  me  to  lead  them.  I  am  not  a  good  leader.  I  tried 
very  hard  to  lead  a  small  dog  once,  but  it  ended  in  his  leading 
me,  and  in  my  most  vaulting  ambition  I  should  not  dream 
of  leading  even  one  tame  Irishman,  much  less  a  dozen,  and 
that  dozen  Fenians.  I  have  never  seen  any  dynamite,  but 
I  loathe  both  powder  and  temper  explosions.  They  are 
very  unnerving.  A  pretty  house,  birds,  flowers,  music, 


MY  MYTHICAL  REPUTATION  167 

books,  and  a  circle  of  understanding  friends,  are  more  in  my 
line  than  Fenians  and  dynamite  ;  they  are  less  exciting  it  is 
true,  but  I  want  only  peace  and  quiet,  not  noise  or  glory. 
Henry  James  speaks  in  one  of  his  inimitable  stories  of  a  man 
who  had  the  charm  of  being  always  at  home.  Well,  I  had 
another  charm,  that  of  being  even  from  the  beginning  of 
my  married  life  almost  always  alone.  T.  P.  was  a  congenital 
bachelor,  he  loved  men,  and  clubs,  and  political  meetings, 
and  speeches,  and  public  dinners,  and  dining  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  long  conferences  with  his  confreres.  The 
consequence  was,  as  I  once  laughingly  said  to  a  friend,  "  I 
rarely  see  T.  P.,  with  all  that  he  has  to  do,  but  when  I  do 
meet  him  out  at  dinner  I  still  find  him  an  agreeable  man." 

My  cook,  when  I  engaged  her — an  Irishwoman,  and  an 
original — had  given  me  a  Roland  for  an  Oliver.  After  asking 
her  various  questions  about  how  long  she  had  been  in  her 
last  place,  her  capabilities,  etc.,  I  said,  "  And  now,  cook,  in 
the  light  of  recent  painful  events,  I  must  ask  you  a  very 
direct  question  :  Do  you  drink  ?  " 

"  No,  Madam,"  she  answered,  "  and  I  may  say  as  I  am 
looking  for  a  place  where  the  lady  don't,  as  I've  been  very 
unlucky  in  my  last  places." 

We  then  exchanged  characters  for  sobriety,  and  she  came 
to  me  the  next  day.  She  had  been  in  the  house  three  or 
four  months  when  one  morning  at  nine  o'clock  she  informed 
me  that  a  gentleman  wanted  to  see  me. 

I  said,  "  Isn't  it  rather  early  for  a  gentleman  to  call  ? 
Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  she  said,  "  I  never  saw  him 
before." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Using  the  telephone,"  she  answered. 

"  What  impudence  !  "  I  said, — and  when  I  put  on  my 
most  becoming  peignoir  and  went  downstairs  it  was  T.  P.  ! 
Emerson,  that  gentle  and  comforting  philosopher,  says  there 
is  a  law  of  compensation  in  everything.  Maybe  so.  At  any 
rate,  when  a  woman  marries  a  man  who  is  in  the  strictest  sense 
of  the  word  a  public  man,  giving  his  time,  his  geniality,  his 


168  I  MYSELF 

energy,  and  his  life,  to  the  multitude,  he  inevitably  becomes 
absorbed  in  outside  interests,  and  his  wife's  compensation 
for  loneliness  must  be  pride  in  his  reputation  and  his  popu- 
larity. And  of  course  she  shines  in  reflected  glory,  and  that, 
although  not  quite  so  glorious  as  her  own  glory,  is  a  thousand 
times  better  than  not  shining  at  all.  And  there  is  another 
and  not  a  poor  compensation  for  having  her  time  at  her 
own  disposal — the  opportunity  of  forming  close  and  devoted 
friendships.  Mrs  Labouchere  once  said  to  me  that  I  was  better 
off  than  most  women,  for  I  had  two  homes,  hers  and  mine. 
And  what  could  be  pleasanter  than  a  home  where  another 
woman  has  all  the  worry  and  responsibility  and  you  have 
only  the  pleasure  and  amusement  ?  And  I  adored  Dora, 
who  was  a  most  quaint  and  attractive  little  child  when  she 
was  only  four,  dancing  prettily  and  reciting  with  great 
brilliancy  "  Where  are  you  going  to,  my  pretty  maid  ?  "  hold- 
ing up  her  skirts  coquettishly,  "I'm  going  a-milking,  sir,  she 
said."  And  a  little  later,  what  an  Ariel  she  made  when  Mrs 
Labouchere  gave  "  The  Tempest  "  in  the  garden  of  Pope's 
Villa  ! — with  her  round  little  face,  and  her  infantile  grace,  her 
diaphanous  garments  and  her  wings  she  looked  an  elfin 
thing  just  ready  to  fly  away.  Dora  has  fulfilled  her  promise 
of  childish  beauty,  and  is  now  as  the  Marquesa  di  Rudini 
one  of  the  acknowledged  loveliest  women  in  Rome. 

Naturally  my  first  meeting  with  the  Baroness  Burdett- 
Coutts  made  a  lasting  impression  on  my  mind.  It  was  one 
afternoon  in  the  height  of  the  London  season  at  Lady  Jeune's. 

There  was  only  a  very  small  gathering  :  Mrs  Jopling  Rowe, 
brilliant,  charming,  and  more  beautiful  than  her  celebrated 
portrait  by  Millais,  Lewis  Morris  the  poet,  Thomas  Hardy, 
that  most  gifted  and  most  modest  author,  who  had  not  yet 
written  "  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles,"  De  Lara,  and  the 
Baroness,  who  was  dressed  in  a  charmingly  old-fashioned 
manner.  Her  gown  of  deep  purple  silk  was  made  with  a 
rather  full  skirt,  and  a  simple  bodice  belted  in  with  the  same 
material.  There  were  lace  ruffles  at  the  neck  and  sleeves, 
and  she  wore  a  small  black  cape  of  embroidery  and  lace,  and 
a  close  black  bonnet  trimmed  in  violets.  Her  ear-rings  of 


diamonds  were  long,  and  she  carried  a  small  silk  bag  of 
netted  purple  silk — neither  long  earrings  nor  handbags  were 
worn  at  that  period. 

Lady  Jeune  presented  me,  and  the  Baroness  was  exceed- 
ingly gracious,  asked  where  I  lived,  carefully  wrote  down  the 
number,  and  said  she  would  call  to  see  me.  De  Lara  at  that 
moment  was  the  most  popular  tenor  in  London.  Knowing 
the  Baroness's  fondness  for  music,  Lady  Jeune  asked  him  to 
sing,  and  he  gave  this  poem  of  Owen  Meredith's,  set  to  his 
own  characteristic  music  : 

"  As  the  one  star  that's  left  in  the  morning 

Is  more  noticed  than  all  night's  host, 
As  the  late  lone  rose  of  October 

For  its  rareness  regarded  the  most, 
As  the  least  of  the  leaves  of  December 

That  is  loved  as  the  last  on  the  tree, 
So  sweetest  of  all  to  remember 

Is  thy  love's  latest  promise  to  me. 

For  to  love  it  is  hard,  and  'tis  harder, 

Perchance,  to  be  loved  again, 
But  if  living  be  not  loving 

Then  living  is  not  all  in  vain. 
To  the  tears  I  have  shed  and  regret  not 

What  matters  a  few  more  tears  ? 
Why  should  love,  that  is  present  for  ever, 

Be  afraid  of  the  absence  of  years  ? 

When  the  snow's  at  the  door  and  the  ember 

Is  dim,  and  I  far  o'er  the  sea, 
Remember,  beloved,  remember 

That  my  love's  latest  trust  was  in  thee." 

He  sang  magnificently,  with  great  passion  and  expression, 
and  both  Lady  Jeune  and  the  Baroness  went  to  the  piano  and 
thanked  him  warmly.  I  daresay  now  that  he  composes 
grand  opera  De  Lara  looks  superciliously  on  the  tuneful 
music  of  his  youth,  but  it  was  very  charming  nevertheless. 
He  was  a  most  amiable  man,  and  after  hearing  me  sing  a 


170  I  MYSELF 

little  coon  song,  offered  to  cultivate  my  voice,  but  somehow, 
like  so  much  else  in  my  life,  the  opportunity  slipped  by  and 
came  to  nothing. 

With  a  good  many  visitors,  the  door  bell  to  answer,  and 
continual  errands  for  T.  P.,  one  servant  proved  terribly 
inconvenient,  and  it  was  necessary  to  get  a  Buttons  to  open 
the  door,  clean  the  boots,  and  make  himself  generally  useful. 
Knowing  the  unregenerateness  of  the  genus  boy,  I  deter- 
mined on  a  nice  religious  one,  brought  up  by  the  Christian 
Brothers.  William  was  his  name.  He  was  represented  as 
all  I  desired,  good,  quiet,  conscientious,  obedient,  and  no 
relatives.  So  the  treasure  came.  He  was  a  hopelessly 
dirty  boy.  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  make  a  black 
streak  on  the  blue  wall-paper  from  the  top  to  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs.  His  face  was  continually  like  the  face  of  a 
sweep  with  coal  dust,  he  broke  every  particle  of  china  that 
he  touched,  and  he  had  an  instinctive  aversion  to  opening 
the  door.  One  afternoon  I  was  busy,  with  my  sleeves  rolled 
up,  arranging  a  cupboard,  when  I  heard  the  door  bell  ring 
several  times.  Then  I  called  "  William,"  and  after  an 
interval  the  door  was  finally  opened,  and  William  appeared 
in  my  room  with  a  navy  blue  face  from  grime  and  dust,  and 
said  sulkily,  "  There's  an  ould  woman  downstairs." 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "   I  asked. 

"  On  the  mat,"  said  William,  and  only  when  I  had  finished 
the  cupboard  and  pulled  down  my  sleeves  did  I  descend  to 
find  the  Baroness  Burdett-Coutts  standing  in  the  hall ! 

I  explained  that  William's  only  recommendation  was  his 
religion,  that  he  had  neither  knowledge  nor  manners,  and  I 
begged  her  forgiveness  for  his  rudeness.  She  was  most 
amused,  made  anything  but  a  ceremonious  visit,  and  as  she 
was  leaving  for  Highgate  asked  me  to  come  to  tea  with 
her  there. 

A  few  days  after  her  visit  my  little  son  Toodie  said  to  me, 
"  If  I  tell  you  something  you  won't  tell  anybody  ?  "  I 
promised,  and  he  said,  "  William  says  he  is  not  going  to  clean 
his  teeth  with  your  tooth-brush  any  more — it's  so  hard  it 
makes  his  gums  bleed."  And  I  fancy  the  brush  had  served 


MY  MYTHICAL  REPUTATION  171 

more  purposes  than  one,  for  I  once  found  a  round  black 
object  in  it,  which  on  examination  proved  to  be  a  bird  seed. 
So  I  returned  William,  accompanied  by  my  tooth-brush,  to 
the  Christian  Brothers.  And  he  had  relations.  One  of 
them,  a  most  stylish,  bedizened  young  lady,  his  sister,  called 
to  ask  why  he  had  been  dismissed.  I  afterwards  met  her  in  a 
Turkish  Bath,  where  the  attendant  told  me  she  came  after 
her  horseback  rides  in  the  park,  as  she  was  just  learning  to 
ride  and  the  lessons  made  her  rather  stiff.  She  said  she 
had  lovely  jewellery,  and  that  a  kind  old  gentleman  friend 
always  called  for  her,  after  her  bath,  in  a  carriage.  So 
perhaps  with  her  good  fortune  she  educated  her  brother 
William. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

MY  FAITHFULLEST  FRIEND— MAX 

"  For  never  man  had  friend 
More  enduring  to  the  end, 
Truer  mate  in  every  turn  of  time  and  tide. 
Could  I  think  we'd  meet  again 
It  would  lighten  half  my  pain.  .  .  ." 

THERE  are  two  things  I  remember  about  my  visit  to 
the  Baroness  at  Highgate.  She  gave  me  a  sprig  of 
eucalyptus — it  grows  vigorously  in  Texas,  and  the 
aromatic  odour  was  like  a  breath  from  home — and  I  noticed 
the  portrait  of  a  dog,  a  plebeian,  with  a  stubby  black 
muzzle,  soft,  beautiful,  had-been-sad,  patient  eyes,  a  square, 
tenacious  jaw,  and  an  expensive  collar.  Of  course  he  had  a 
history — one  saw  it  in  his  face.  It  seems  in  his  youth  he 
travelled  in  a  circus,  his  "  stunt  "  being  to  pick  up  live  coals 
with  his  teeth.  He  grew  quite  an  adept  at  this  inhuman  trick, 
curling  up  his  lips,  keeping  his  tongue  back  and  taking  what 
care  he  could,  but  with  all  that  he  was  a  scarred  and  hopeless 
performer;  when  the  Baroness,  by  paying  a  high  price, 
rescued  him,  won  his  everlasting  gratitude  and  adoration, 
and  gave  him  the  happiest  of  homes  until  his  death.  She 
had  a  great  love  of  animals,  and  it  is  to  her  that  "  Bobby  " 
owes  his  handsome  bronze  fountain,  which  he  surmounts 
with  such  alluring  impudence  in  Edinburgh.  "  Bobby  "  was 
the  dog  of  a  carrier  and  always  sat  by  his  master  and  minded 
the  cart  when  the  parcels  were  being  delivered.  On  a 
freezing  day  the  man  caught  a  cold  and  died  of  pneumonia. 
"  Bobby  "  watched  by  the  body,  attended  the  funeral,  and 
made  the  grave  his  future  home.  The  sexton  and  the  carrier's 


MY  FAITHFULLEST  FRIEND— MAX        173 

friends  fed  him,  and  there  he  remained  in  the  churchyard  for 
several  years  until  he  died — and  I  hope  was  buried  by  the  side 
of  his  master.  In  bronze  he  looks  a  perfect  comedian,  with  his 
turned-up,  cock-sure  little  nose,  his  little  paws  turned  out, 
and  his  woolly  coat  of  rough  hair.  He  evidently  had  a  sense 
of  humour,  but,  like  many  comedians  and  humorists,  his  heart 
became  a  tragedy  of  faithful  grief.  How  well  he  deserves  a 
statue — this  unselfish,  self-sacrificing,  long-suffering,  best 
friend  of  man  ! 

In  the  autumn  Toodie  was  being  sent  to  school  to  Old 
Hall,  Ware,  and  just  before  he  left  home,  he  and  T.  P.  went 
out  together  to  select  a  new  suit  for  school.  We  were  still 
very  poor,  and  the  clothes  would  take  about  all  the  money 
T.  P.  had  in  his  pocket.  I  cautioned  him  to  buy  a  service- 
able tweed  of  a  dark  colour,  and  off  they  started.  This  was 
in  the  morning.  Towards  dusk,  I  heard  an  excitement 
downstairs  and  Toodie's  voice  saying,  "  Wait,  I'll  get  milk 
for  him."  And  when  I  went  down  a  very  noble  collie  looked 
up  pathetically  in  my  face,  and  wagged  his  tail.  He  had 
been  bought  at  the  dogs'  home  with  the  money  for  Toodie's 
clothes.  They  had  also  lunched  out,  and  brought  back  a 
liberal  selection  of  chocolates  and  a  dog  whip,  which  that  wise 
and  sweet  creature  Max  Gladstone  O'Connor  never  needed. 
We  named  him  for  Max  (Toodie's  friend  in  America),  and  for 
Mr  Gladstone  because  his  eyes  were  so  Gladstonian ;  his 
mobile  eyebrows  black,  on  a  tan  ground,  were  like  Sir  Henry 
Irving's.  For  the  most  part  his  eyes  were  limpid  and 
beautiful,  but  they  could  be  both  eager  and  fierce.  Mr 
Parnell  said  he  had  a  strain  of  Gordon  Setter,  as  his  nose  was 
too  blunt  for  a  pure  collie.  After  he  had  been  with  us  a  few 
days,  he  gravely  shook  hands  with  me,  and  that  sealed  our 
everlasting  friendship.  He  loved  T.  P.  and  Toodie,  but  I 
always  remained  first  in  his  affections,  and  he  knew  my  mind, 
grave  or  gay,  as  well  as  I  did  myself.  He  had  been  well 
trained,  was  obedient,  and  had  the  reasoning  powers  of  a 
human  being.  His  coat  of  black  and  tan  was  long  and 
silky,  and  his  tail  was  like  a  great  feather.  How  so  remark- 
able a  friend  had  ever  been  abandoned  it  was  impossible 


i74  I  MYSELF 

to  guess.  Probably  his  owners  were  stopping  only  tempor- 
arily in  London,  and  when  they  lost  him  were  obliged  to 
leave  town  at  once.  I  spoke  to  him  about  his  past  life, 
once  or  twice,  but  it  was  evidently  such  a  sore  subject  that 
I  never  mentioned  it  again.  He  very  often  went  with  T.  P. 
to  the  House  of  Commons  and  used  to  sit  in  the  lobby 
entrance  in  one  of  the  tall-hooded  leather  chairs.  On  the 
second  reading  of  the  Irish  Bill,  in  the  excitement  of  the 
moment  he  was  forgotten,  and  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
the  door  bell  rang,  and  there  was  a  policeman  with  Max, 
who  had  never  moved  from  his  seat.  The  late  Dr  Wallace 
gave  a  dinner  at  the  House,  and  Max  was  invited,  and  sat 
at  the  right  hand  of  the  host :  on  the  floor,  it  is  true,  but  there 
he  was.  Dr  Wallace  had  a  caustic  tongue,  and  said,  "  Max 
is  the  only  four-footed  member  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
but  plenty  of  them  have  long  ears." 

Max  would  wait  hours  in  front  of  shops.  Once  I  was  so 
long  that  a  policeman  gathered  him  up  and  led  him  to  a 
police  station.  That  he  considered  a  great  disgrace,  and  it 
took  him  some  time  to  recover  his  self-respect.  He  loved 
cabs.  When  I  said  to  the  maid,  "  Call  me  a  cab,"  he  darted 
downstairs,  and  the  moment  the  cab  arrived  he  jumped  in. 
By  looking  dreamily  straight  ahead  he  hoped  to  avoid  my 
eye,  and  if  I  said,  "  Max,  you  can't  go,"  a  sudden  deafness 
overtook  him.  In  his  younger,  more  observant  days  he 
could  follow  any  omnibus  with  me  in  it  through  the  most 
crowded  part  of  London.  If  I  walked  too  long,  he  took  a 
cab  without  consulting  me,  and  I  have  often  heard  a  cabby 
good-humouredly  ask  him  if  he  had  his  fare  with  him.  Once 
walking  in  Grosvenor  Square  I  missed  him,  and  found  him 
sitting  smiling  on  the  back  seat  of  a  satin-lined  landaulette 
drawn  up  in  front  of  one  of  the  great  houses.  The  powdered, 
cockaded,  liveried  coachman  and  footman  were  looking 
amused,  but  had  not  made  him  unwelcome,  and  I  had  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  persuading  him  to  descend.  He  dis- 
liked all  dogs,  and  never  spoke  to  one  if  he  could  avoid  it. 
When  there  was  a  bunch  of  dogs  on  the  street  he  made  a 
wide  circle  around  them,  but  if  a  dog  was  ill  or  in  trouble  that 


MY  FAITHFULLEST  FRIEND— MAX        175 

was  a  different  matter.  Then  he  considered  it  his  Christian 
duty  to  care  for  him.  One  cold,  rainy  night  in  the  winter 
we  missed  him.  I  called  and  called  at  the  door,  but  he  did  not 
come.  The  next  morning  about  ten  he  arrived,  drank  a  vast 
quantity  of  water,  but  was  too  excited  to  eat,  barked  to  go 
out,  and  when  I  opened  the  front  door  off  he  rushed.  I 
followed  him  and  found  a  very  sick  dog  lying  on  the  doorstep 
of  a  near-by  empty  house.  A  policeman  told  me  that  Max 
had  been  sitting  by  this  dog  all  night,  licking  his  face  and 
giving  him  what  comfort  he  could.  The  policeman  carried 
the  dog  to  the  dogs'  home,  Max  trotting  at  his  heels  ;  then 
Max  came  back  and  slept  steadily  for  about  fourteen  hours. 

His  memory  was  extraordinary.  He  had  been  only  once 
to  Queen  Anne's  Gate,  to  the  Laboucheres,  when  one  after- 
noon Mrs  Jopling  was  giving  a  musical  party,  and  there  I  met 
Mrs  Labouchere.  We  left  together,  Max,  who  had  been 
waiting  at  the  door,  following  behind.  Mrs  Labouchere 
asked  if  I  was  dining  alone ;  I  said  yes,  and  she  suggested 
that  I  had  better  come  home  and  dine  with  her.  I  said  I 
would,  if  she  could  stop  a  moment  at  my  house  on  the  way. 
Soon  after  this  Max  disappeared.  Three-quarters  of  an 
hour  afterwards  when  we  arrived  at  her  house,  there  was  Max 
waiting  on  the  steps  for  us.  Now,  unless  he  understood  the 
conversation,  why  did  he  go  there  ? 

When  we  went  to  "  The  Star  "  building  to  live,  he,  like 
myself,  loathed  it.  Boys  were  his  particular  antipathy,  and 
there  were  always  newsboys  about,  and  he  detested  noise  and 
commotion,  loving  quiet  and  order,  so  that  that  experience 
was  not  a  happy  part  of  his  life.  The  watchman  used  to  be 
relieved  on  Sunday,  and  then  he  went  in  the  country  to  spend 
the  day  at  Brixton,  taking  Max  with  him.  When  he  left 
"  The  Star  "  and  lived  altogether  at  Brixton,  every  Sunday 
morning  for  months  Max  spent  that  day  with  him,  starting 
off  quite  alone  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  coming 
back  about  the  same  hour  in  the  evening. 

There  were  two  of  my  friends  he  adored — Cardinal  Manning 
and  Monsieur  Johannes  Wolff,  the  gifted  violinist.  He  used 
very  often  to  go  quite  alone  to  visit  the  Cardinal.  We  lived 


176  I  MYSELF 

a  few  doors  from  him  after  we  left  "  The  Star  "  building,  and 
he  would  wait  until  the  door  of  the  palace  opened,  walk 
gravely  up  to  his  library,  scratch  at  the  door,  go  in,  shake 
hands  with  his  Eminence,  and  lie  down  before  the  fire  at  his 
feet.  I  remember  going  in  one  afternoon  to  see  him,  and  the 
Cardinal  said,  "  One  member  of  your  family  is  already  here," 
and  there  was  Max  beaming  upon  me.  The  Cardinal  added, 
"  If  you  ever  want  a  home  for  Max,  he  will  find  one  with 
me." 

For  M.  Wolff  he  reserved  a  special  and  individual  atten- 
tion that  he  gave  to  no  one  else,  not  even  to  me.  M.  Wolff 
would  say,  "  Max,  show  your  teeth,  smile  at  me,  smile  at  me," 
and  Max  curled  back  his  mobile  black  upper  lip,  showing 
every  tooth  in  his  head.  How  we  used  to  laugh  at  that 
wonderful  smile  of  his  !  M.  Wolff  always  rewarded  him 
with  loud  and  fulsome  praise,  and  perfect  as  he  was,  he  had 
a  little  vanity.  He  lived  until  he  was  nearly  fifteen,  and  was 
thoughtful  and  wise  to  the  very  end  of  his  perfectly  blame- 
less life. 

When  he  was  too  deaf  and  his  scent  too  faint  for  him  to 
follow  me  when  I  walked,  he  took  three  hours'  exercise  every 
day  alone — two  hours  in  the  morning  from  ten  until  twelve 
o'clock,  and  in  the  afternoon  from  three  until  four.  I've 
often  met  him  going  at  a  steady  trot  down  the  embankment, 
or,  if  he  felt  in  need  of  amusement,  down  the  King's  Road, 
or  the  Fulham  Road. 

What  a  grief  his  death  was,  and  still  is  !  He  had  suffered 
greatly  from  gastritis,  and  his  poor  face  looked  troubled  and 
pained,  but  he  smiled  once  very  feebly,  lifting  his  lip  just  a 
little  when  M.  Wolff  came  to  see  him.  I  cried  then.  And 
they  told  me  that  he  looked  sweet  and  peaceful  after  he  died, 
like  the  dear  old  Max  who  had  been  my  faithfullest  friend  and 
closest  companion  for  so  many  years.  I  could  not  bear  to 
look  closely  at  him,  but  from  a  distance  I  saw  them  carry 
him  to  the  garden,  and  I  called  out,  "  Turn  his  face  toward 
my  window,  and  make  his  grave  where  the  morning  sun  will 
shine  upon  it."  And  then  tears  hid  the  burying  from  my 
sight. 


MY  FAITHFULLEST  FRIEND— MAX        177 

I  intended  to  put  a  little  stone  at  the  head  of  his  resting- 
place  in  Chelsea  with  "  To  the  Memory  of  Max,  beautiful, 
good  and  gifted,"  carved  on  it,  but  I  never  did,  and  it  is  just 
as  well,  now  that  Oakley  Lodge  is  in  other  hands  than  mine  ; 
and  the  epitaph  is  only  in  my  heart,  for  I,  who  love  all  dogs, 
know  there  never  was,  or  could  be  one  like  him,  so  sensible, 
so  sweetly  reasonable,  so  merciful,  so  wise,  and  so  loving. 
If  I  ever  can,  I  shall  do  something  handsome  for  the  Dogs' 
Home  in  the  name  of  Max  Gladstone  O'Connor. 


12 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

IN  GERMANY— DAILY  LETTERS  FROM  T.  P. 

IN  the  spring  of  this  year  Lawson  Tait  ordered  me  off  to 
Kreuznach,  Germany,  for  a  long  course  of  baths,  as  my 
health  was  very  delicate.  T.  P.  went  with  me,  and 
Harold  Frederic  and  his  wife,  who  were  going  up  the  Rhine, 
came  along,  so  we  made  a  party  of  four.  It  was  the  month 
of  June  and  Germany  was  as  green  as  Ireland  that  year. 
We  stopped  in  Cologne,  saw  the  Cathedral,  which  with  its 
wonderful  architecture  gives  a  great  and  impressive  sense  of 
space,  and  in  the  afternoon  went  to  the  Cemetery  and  looked 
for  the  grave  of  Judge  Keogh,  the  Irish  traitor,  who  is  buried 
there,  which  T.  P.  wished  to  see,  but  we  never  found  it. 
Harold  Frederic  at  that  time  had  written  no  novels — these 
came  afterwards — was  a  most  interesting  companion.  He 
was  a  man  of  great  natural  ability,  having  started  in  life 
without  any  educational  advantages  whatever.  He  began 
by  being  apprenticed  on  a  farm,  and  used  to  boast  that 
he  could  milk  a  cow  better  than  he  could  write  an  article. 
He  was  even  a  better  journalist  than  novelist ;  his  letters 
from  London  to  "  The  Times  "  were  many  of  them  of  great 
brilliancy. 

He  had  made  a  study  of  the  Irish  question,  had  travelled 
in  the  country,  and  was  on  intimate  terms  with  a  number 
of  the  Irish  members,  and  his  articles  at  the  time  of  the 
division  in  the  party  were  quoted  all  over  America.  He 
said  to  me  while  we  were  sailing  up  the  Rhine.  "  When  I 
was  in  America  in  March,  I  missed  a  train  and  had  to  stop 
the  night  at  a  small  country  hotel,  and  the  only  thing  for  me 
to  read  was  a  pile  of  old  '  Harper's  Weeklies  '  "  (he  was  a 


IN  GERMANY— DAILY  LETTERS  FROM  T.  P.  179 

great  reader,  but  acknowledged  that  he  never  could  digest 
George  Meredith),  "  and  in  one  of  the  papers  I  read  a  story  of 
yours.  It  was  so  bad — how  could  a  clever  woman  like  you 
do  it  ?  "  (He  believed  in  scratches  with  cold  cream  after- 
ward !)  , ,,  v  i 

I  laughed.  His  candour  was  delightful.  "  Dear  Mr 
Frederic,"  I  said,  "  I  quite  agree  with  you.  I  am  neither  a 
literary  woman,  nor  a  story-teller,  but — I  was  poor,  and  had 
to  live.  The  editor  of  '  Harper's  Weekly/  my  good  friend, 
Mr  Conant,  accepted  my  stories,  and  after  all  they  were  not 
worse  than  some  of  the  others." 

"  Oh  yes,  they  were,"  Mr  Frederic  said,  "  worse  than  any- 
body's— hopeless.  I  read  two — they  were  both  equally 
bad.  Conant  had  no  excuse  for  accepting  them,  he  was 
stretching  friendship  too  far." 

Mr  Conant,  who  was  for  many  years  connected  with  the 
Harpers,  was  deservedly  a  most  popular  man.  Amiable, 
cheerful,  optimistic,  clever  and  handsome,  his  end  was  an 
unfathomable  mystery.  He  put  his  hat  on,  left  the  office 
for  lunch,  and  no  trace  was  ever  heard  of  him  again. 

He  sometimes  invested  in  a  lottery  ticket,  and  through 
this  source  Fortune  curiously  enough  twice  slipped  through 
his  fingers.  He  and  Mrs  Conant  were  in  Cuba  at  the  time 
of  the  Grand  Havana  Lottery.  A  friend  in  New  York  had 
sent  him  a  cheque  asking  him  to  invest  the  money  in  a 
lottery  ticket  for  him,  and  he  bought  it  with  his  own.  Before 
posting  it  he  said  to  his  wife,  "  One  of  these  may  be  the 
prize  winner — I  wonder  which  I  had  better  send,"  and  he 
finally  despatched  No.  999  (the  actual  number  I  forget). 
His  friend  promptly  returned  it,  saying  that  times  were  hard 
and  if  Mr  Conant  could  conveniently  dispose  of  the  ticket 
he  would  be  grateful.  Mr  Conant  then  offered  the  ticket  to 
his  wife,  saying  that  Fate  surely  had  something  up  her  sleeve 
in  giving  this  particular  number  into  his  hands  twice.  Mrs 
Conant,  who  was  perfectly  free  from  superstition,  begged 
that  it  might  be  sold,  saying  she  would  much  prefer  a  new 
dress.  He  did  sell  it,  and  the  next  day  No.  999  drew  the 
Grand  Prize  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  !  This  so  im- 


i8o  I  MYSELF 

pressed  Mr  Conant  that  he  continued  his  investments  in 
lottery  tickets,  and  once  drew  four  hundred  pounds. 

T.  P.  always  wrote  me  a  daily  letter  the  four  summers 
that  I  spent  in  Kreuznach.  I  have  great  numbers  of  them, 
but  select  at  haphazard  only  one  or  two. 

"  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS, 
"  Monday. 

"  DEAREST  BESS, — I  have  only  returned  from  Twickenham 
and  am  hurrying  down  to  the  House — being  already  very 
late.  I  got  two  letters  from  you  to-day.  The  first  arrived 
on  Saturday  night,  after  I  had  left,  but  I  got  Armstrong  to 
send  it  on  to  me  so  that  I  had  it  by  post  early  in  Twickenham 
to-day.  And  then  your  second  letter  I  found  on  my  arrival 
here.  I  am  always  so  glad  to  get  one  of  your  letters.  I  think 
you  the  prettiest  letter-writer  I  ever  read.  Not  that  your 
letters  are  a  bit  clever ;  but  all  the  goodness  of  your  heart 
comes  out  in  them  so  clearly.  When  you  were  in  America, 
I  always  rejoiced  at  a  letter  from  you.  It  removed  all 
misgivings,  and  doubts,  and  made  me  feel,  even  more  than 
your  presence  or  your  talk,  what  precious  treasures  of  love 
there  were  in  your  nature.  I  rejoice  that  my  experience  of 
marriage  instead  of  decreasing  has  increased  my  affection. 
I  certainly  love  you  better  every  day.  Your  health  is  the 
one  cloud  that  darkens  our  happiness  ;  and  you  are  a  good 
deal  more  feverish  and  fretful  about  that  than  I  am.  I  would 
like  you  to  be  well  and  strong,  of  course,  but  I  don't  feel 
that  even  ill-health  continued  throughout  marriage  would  in 
the  least  diminish  my  love  for  you.  Therefore  I  feel  worried 
sometimes  to  see  you  so  desperate  about  it.  I  had  quite  a 
pleasant  time  at  Labby's  and  will  be  out  there  again  next 
Saturday.  Mrs  L.  sends  you  a  long  letter  to-day  describing 
our  life  there.  Last  night  we  had  two  strange  people  at 
dinner — the  Meri vales.  He  is  a  clever  dramatist  but  wild 
and  eccentric,  and  has  already  been  some  time  in  an  asylum. 
He  talked  all  the  time  in  a  thunderous  voice  ;  but  still  he  was 
entertaining.  I  got  a  good  London  Letter  out  of  the  different 
people  I  had  seen.  I  ought  to  go  out  more  ;  and  then  my 


IN  GERMANY— DAILY  LETTERS  FROM  T.  P.  181 

people  would  not  have  to  complain  of  want  of  variety  in  my 
letters.  When  I  got  here  I  found  a  letter  from  Mr  Elaine 
asking  me  to  get  his  wife  and  daughter  into  the  House  this 
evening.  I  immediately  despatched  Armstrong  with  a 
letter  telling  them  to  be  down  at  eight.  Mrs  Jeune  gives  a 
lunch  in  his  honour  next  Thursday.  She  has  invited  me  and 
I  will  go  if  I  can.  Several  people  have  called — including  Miss 
Ward  of  whom  I  have  heard  you  talk.  I  was  not  in  ;  and 
she  leaves  London  immediately.  There  is  also  a  letter  from 
a  Miss  Starkweather — or  something  like  that — saying  she 
and  her  mother  are  here.  I  will  write  and  invite  them 
down  to  the  House  of  Commons. 

"  No  more  just  now  from, — Your  ever  loving, 

"  TOMSK  " 

"  Monday. 

"  DEAREST  BESS, — The  weather  is  frightfully  bad  in 
London.  Constant  rain,  hideous  cold.  I  have  a  cold  in  the 
head,  my  nose  is  red  and  swollen,  and  I  can't  speak  without 
snuffling.  I  am  writing  this,  as  I  sit  in  the  House  listening 
to  Gladstone.  The  old  boy  is  making  a  long  speech  full  of 
vigour,  and  tho'  his  voice  is  now  and  then  feeble  he  is  on 
the  whole  in  excellent  form. 

"  Your  letter  in  '  The  Star '  of  to-day.  It  was  a  wild  and 
vehement  attack  on  the  position  of  women  in  English  Society. 
You  took  your  revenge  for  all  the  weary  hours  you  have  had 
of  loneliness  while  I  have  been  in  the  House  and  otherwise 
occupied.  You  must  have  been  very  down  in  the  mouth 
when  you  wrote  it.  I'm  rather  glad  that  you  have  taken 
it  out  on  '  The  Star '  instead  of  on  me.  The  article  will 
be  largely  read,  I  think.  I  am  trying  to  get  up  a  corre- 
spondence upon  it.  I  have  written  a  letter  myself  to  '  The 
Star '  to-day  under  the  heading  '  Are  Englishmen  kind 
to  their  women  ?  '  It  may  blossom  into  something.  I  went 
yesterday  evening  to  see  Mrs  Govett.  She  was  quite  plump 
in  the  face  and  had  quite  recovered  from  her  illness.  Your 
Lady  White  came  in.  The  weather  was  hideous  outside. 
We  were  all  depressed  and  spoke  outrageous  cynicism. 


i8a  I  MYSELF 

Govett  is  away  in  Scotland.  Dined  at  my  Club,  came  home 
early,  woke  up  with  my  cold  worse,  a  disagreeable  taste  in 
my  mouth  and  a  general  miser ableness.  But  I  worked  it  off, 
stuck  to  business  hard  all  day  ;  have  made  arrangements  in 
the  country  which  I  think  will  help  forward  the  circulation. 
I  then  drove  down  to  the  House. 

"  Gladstone  has  just  ended  his  speech  in  a  splendid  out- 
burst, he  has  put  Hartington  and  the  other  Unionists  in  a 
great  hole. 

"  Have  sent  you  cartloads  of  papers  to-day. 

"  No  more  from  your  much  abused  but  deserving  'usban, 

"  TOMSK 

"  Rammie  has  lost  his  way  several  times  lately  and  returned 
to  my  room  and  affections." 

Rammie  was  a  most  fascinating  but  unfaithful  German 
dog,  that  T.  P.  had  picked  up  in  a  peasant's  hut.  He  sub- 
sequently left  us  entirely  for  the  night  watchman,  went 
with  him  to  Brixton,  and  left  him  eventually  for  two  wealthy 
ladies  who  visited  the  watchman  during  an  illness.  They 
had  a  carriage-and-pair,  and  one  day  he  entered  it,  refused 
to  get  out,  so  they  bought  him,  and  he  ended  his  days  with 
bow-knots  of  ribbons  on  his  head  driving  around  Hyde  Park. 

The  post  in  the  morning  was  my  greatest  pleasure,  al- 
though Kreuznach  itself  is  a  pretty,  delightful,  healthy 
little  place  ;  and  how  beneficial  the  strong  brine  baths  are  ! 
Reinforced  by  mutterlauger  (motherlye),  the  water  in  a 
concentrated  form,  they  are  wonderful  for  all  sorts  of 
chronic  illnesses.  My  first  year  there,  I  took  ninety  baths.  All 
April,  May  and  June  I  spent  there,  but  interrupted  my  cure 
to  return  for  the  month  of  July  to  London.  How  delightful 
it  was  to  get  back  home  again  !  Max  had  a  regular  hysteria 
of  joy. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

"  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM,"  AND 
GEORGE  AUGUSTUS  SALA 

THE  day  after  my  return  I  went  to  Twickenham,  where 
Mrs  Labouchere  was  busy  arranging  for  the  pro- 
duction of  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  It  was 
to  be  given  in  the  beautiful  garden  of  Pope's  Villa,  under  the 
light  of  the  moon,  with  an  orchestra  to  render  Mendelssohn's 
music — that  divine  fairy  music,  so  interpretive  of  all  the 
poet's  dreams.  The  disposition  and  character  of  the  garden 
lent  itself  perfectly  to  the  play,  and  never  was  there  a  more 
grassy,  daisy-pied,  flowery,  softly-rolling  background  pro- 
vided for  Shakespeare's  fascinating  fantasy.  Clumps  of 
lilies  and  Canterbury  bells  grew  just  where  they  were  wanted, 
and  a  bed  of  roses  was  not  too  far  away.  A  noble  old  tree 
with  gnarled  roots  in  the  centre  was  chosen  for  the  stage. 
The  huge  branches,  like  a  monster  umbrella,  dipped  down 
here,  and  there,  quite  low  enough  for  Puck  to  swing  upon. 
The  musicians  were  hidden  from  view  behind  a  screen  of 
honeysuckle  and  trumpet  flowers.  The  electric  lights 
glowed  through  blossoming  foliage,  and  a  moon  was  pro- 
vided in  case  the  real  one,  which  was  due,  should  hide  her 
silver  face  behind  a  cloud. 

The  dress  rehearsal  came  at  last.  Mrs  Labouchere  had 
admonished  Mr  Sala  (Bottom)  whose  memory  was  unreliable, 
"  to  take  pains  and  be  perfect,"  but  even  while  wearing  the 
head  of  the  ass,  he  clung  to  his  book.  "  You  can't  do  that," 
she  said,  "  the  night  of  the  performance."  "  Give  me," 
he  answered,  "  a  whisky  and  soda  instead,  and  you  will  find 
I'll  rise  to  the  occasion,"  and  he  kept  his  promise  and  was 
most  excellent  in  the  part. 


i84  I  MYSELF 

The  great  night  followed  the  dress  rehearsal,  and  the 
weather  was  superb — a  midsummer's  night  warm  enough  to 
make  a  gentle  breeze  grateful,  and  the  crickets  chirped 
applause  even  before  Puck  (dainty,  auburn-haired  Rose 
Norreys)  appeared  under  the  tree.  Who  can  forget  her  gay 
vibrating  voice,  "I'll  put  a  girdle  round  the  earth  in  forty 
minutes,"  and  speeding  like  a  bird  she  flew  into  the  darkness. 
And  then  Titania  (lovely  Kate  Vaughan)  that  exquisite 
fairylike  vision,  came  floating  from  an  emerald  vista,  like  a 
cloud  of  iridescent  fireflies.  She  was  clothed  in  a  rose 
gossamer  garment  flecked  in  spangles,  which  revealed  her 
classic  limbs,  and  on  her  perfect  head  a  little  crown  glittered 
with  stars.  Her  attendant  fairies,  in  green  and  gold  and 
white  and  mauve,  followed  in  her  wake,  and  then  Titania 
listens  to  their  song  and  sleeps.  That  plotting  Oberon 
comes  along  (Lady  Archibald  Campbell)  as  fairylike  and 
diaphanous  as  Titania,  with  his  bewitched  flower  juice,  and 
drops  it  on  her  eyelids — 

"  In  thine  eye  that  shall  appear, 

When  thou  wak'st  it  is  thy  dear  ; 

Wake  when  some  vile  thing  is  near. 
When  in  that  moment — so  it  came  to  pass, 
Titania  wak'd,  and  straightway  lov'd  an  ass." 

And  there  was  exquisite  Titania  weaving  garlands  of 
natural  flowers  around  Bottom's  hairy  head,  and  winsome 
Puck,  sitting  on  a  branch  of  the  tree,  laughing  to  see  Oberon's 
magic  do  its  mischievous  work.  The  soft  breeze  stirred 
Titania's  sparkling  draperies  to  the  despair  of  Sir  Frederic 
Leighton,  who  said  he  could  never  hope  in  his  most  artistic 
moments  to  reproduce  them.  It  was  the  first  appearance 
of  the  alluring  dancer  in  Shakespeare,  but  her  soft  caressing 
voice  and  perfect  intonation  suited  the  poetical  rhythm 
as  if  she  had  spent  her  life  studying  blank  verse. 

Another  woman  of  great  loveliness  in  the  caste  was 
Dorothy  Dene,  and  that  night  was  her  most  beauteous 
moment.  Sir  Frederic  Leighton  designed  and  superintended 
her  dress,  which  was  pure  Greek,  and  the  silver  fillet  binding 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM          185 

her  curling  hair,  and  her  severely  simple  white  draperies 
embroidered  in  a  pattern  of  silken  thread,  suited  her  noble 
beauty  as  no  other  costume  could  have  done. 

Miss  Fortescue,  then  in  the  zenith  of  her  pink  and  white 
beauty,  was  Hermia,  all  in  glistening  white,  with  her  gold 
hair  bound  with  gold,  and  the  men  were  as  good-looking  as 
the  women.  Claude  Ponsonby,  with  his  straight  features 
and  fair  silky  beard,  was  Demetrius,  and  Luxmore  Marshall, 
tall,  straight  and  graceful,  might  have  passed  as  his  twin 
brother.  When  Demetrius  and  Hermia,  Lysander  and 
Helena,  wandered  all  together,  "  the  lovers  full  of  joy  and 
mirth,"  with  real  moonlight  shining  upon  them,  for  the  moon 
had  promptly  taken  her  cue,  and  was  not  a  minute  late, 
the  audience  burst  into  rapturous  applause.  Saucy  Puck, 
like  a  silken  grasshopper  with  flaming  red  hair,  in  her 
arresting  insistent  voice  ended  the  play  : 

t:  To  show  our  simple  skill,  that  is  the  true  beginning  of  our  end, 
Our  true  intent  is  all  for  your  delight." 

A  cloud  obscured  the  moon.  "  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  "  was  over.  The  realities  were  upon  us  once  more. 
The  audience,  who  had  partaken  of  high  tea  before  the  moon 
rose,  rushed  off  for  carriages  and  trains,  leaving  the  caste  and 
a  few  friends  staying  in  the  house  for  supper,  which  was 
scarcely  less  exciting  than  the  play.  Every  one  was  under 
the  spell  of  fairyland  still.  Mr  Sala  made  a  most  charming 
and  pretty  little  speech  in  honour  of  the  Stage  Manager, 
Mrs  Labouchere  ;  who  was  so  touched  by  it  that  she  left 
her  chair  and  gave  him  a  fairy  kiss  on  the  top  of  his  kind, 
bald  head — and  we  all  drank  her  health,  and  the  health  of  the 
lovers  and  the  fairies  and  the  elves. 

Puck  meanwhile,  contrary  to  history,  had  garbed  himself 
in  white,  lace  and  orange  ribbons,  and  was  flirting  out- 
rageously with  Demetrius.  Mr  Labouchere,  who  had 
possibly  during  the  play  been  discussing  Home  Rule  or  the 
abolition  of  the  House  of  Lords  with  an  Irish  Member,  was 
rescued,  borne  to  the  head  of  the  table,  and  beamed  on  us  all, 
drank  his  wife's  health  in  champagne  (which  he  dislikes) 


186  I  MYSELF 

and  was  as  merry,  as  young,  and  as  full  of  quirks  and  quips 
as  Puck  himself.  The  moon  went  to  bed  before  we  did,  but 
we  never  missed  her,  for  that  was  a  night  when  the  gods  were 
good. 

All  girls  have  loved  the  novels  of  William  Black.  "  The 
Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton,"  "  A  Princess  of  Thule," 
and  his  earlier  romances,  are  particularly  appealing  to  youth. 
He,  Thomas  Hardy,  and  Kenneth  Grahame  divide  the  honours 
in  realistic  descriptions  of  scenery,  so  vividly  done  that  with 
William  Black  you  gulp  draughts  of  the  strong  salt  air  of  the 
North  Sea.  The  soft  summer  breeze  of  the  English  Downs 
stirs  your  hair  with  Kenneth  Grahame,  and  your  hand 
involuntarily  reaches  out  to  gather  apples  in  the  orchard 
with  Thomas  Hardy.  It  is  a  wonderful  gift,  this  bringing 
the  sights  and  sounds  and  odours  of  Nature  into  the  dreari- 
ness and  dinginess  of  a  London  house  on  a  foggy  afternoon 
in  mid-winter. 

Mr  Black  was  one  of  the  personalities  whom  I  wished  to 
meet.  He  and  Mrs  Black  (who  was  the  veritable  lady  of  the 
Phaeton)  had  left  London,  and  were  living  in  Brighton  on  the 
East  Cliff,  in  a  very  pretty,  old-fashioned  house,  and  among 
the  modern  pictures  was  a  fine  one  by  Abbey,  for  whom  Mr 
Black  had  a  very  great  admiration.  It  was  originally  called 
"  A  Bible  Reading  in  the  time  of  Shakespeare,"  but  the  title 
was  subsequently  changed  to  "  On  Stormy  Ground."  It 
was  really  a  development  of  one  of  Mr  Abbey's  beautiful 
illustrations  of  Mr  Black's  "  Judith  Shakespeare,"  that 
delightful  book  jointly  illustrated  by  Edwin  Abbey  and 
Alfred  Parsons.  "  McLeod  of  Dare,"  a  novel  that  touched 
me  deeply,  was  also  admirably  illustrated. 

Every  morning  William  Black  walked  for  hours  on  the  old 
pier,  in  solitary  meditation,  for  scarcely  anyone  went  there 
except  himself.  The  glasses  that  he  always  wore  did  not 
hide  the  brightness  of  his  observant  brown  eyes,  and  with 
his  closely  cut  hair,  trim  moustache,  wind  and  sun  tanned 
face,  and  alert  bearing,  he  looked  an  open  air  man  rather 
than  a  journalist  or  novelist. 

I  remember  particularly  one  pleasant  dinner  we  had  at 


GEORGE  AUGUSTUS  SALA      187 

his  house :  himself  and  his  cheery  agreeable  wife,  George 
Augustus  Sala,  T.  P.,  Mrs  Nye  Chart,  and  three  or  four 
friends  who  had  come  down  from  London.  The  guest  who 
carried  off  the  honours  of  the  evening  (for  some  reason  or 
other  he  was  in  a  most  scintillating  mood)  was  George 
Augustus  Sala.  Each  person  recounted  the  most  horrible 
story  of  his  repertoire.  The  only  one  lingering  in  my 
memory  was  the  one  told  by  George  Augustus  Sala,  called 
"  The  Blind  Wife."  A  man  met  an  exceedingly  beautiful 
girl  and  married  her.  She  had  been  born  blind,  and  there 
was  no  hope  of  sight  ever  illuminating  her  heavenly  blue 
eyes.  Her  character  did  not  correspond  with  the  eyes, 
as  she  had  a  waspish  temper.  She  was  mysteriously  know- 
ing about  the  shade  of  curtains  and  carpets ;  if  they  did 
not  match  she  raged.  Milliners  and  dressmakers  also 
suffered,  as  she  was  more  exacting  as  to  the  perfection  of 
work  than  those  who  could  see.  Also,  she  knew  by  some 
extraordinary  method  the  whole  contents  of  her  husband's 
post  (which  doubtless  was  embarrassing  to  him,  as  a  blind 
wife  would  be  of  great  convenience  to  most  men)  and,  unless 
she  was  a  witch,  how  did  she  find  out  things  only  discoverable 
by  sight  ?  The  husband  became  suspicious  and  unnerved, 
and  consulted  the  greatest  oculists  of  the  day,  but  they  said 
with  one  accord,  "  Blind  from  birth."  And  still  she  knew 
all  that  occurred  in  the  house  as  one  of  keenest  vision.  One 
night  she  refused  to  go  to  a  ball  with  her  husband,  and  he, 
worrying  over  the  paradox  of  his  wife  being  able  to  see 
and  still  being  blind,  returned  home  unexpectedly  from  the 
ball,  and  found  her  sitting  at  his  writing-table  reading  a 
love  letter.  But  how  ?  Her  peignoir  was  unfastened  and 
thrown  back  from  her  shoulders  ;  her  bosom  was  uncovered 
and  in  the  centre  of  each  breast  was  a  terrible  eye  !  Quelle 
surprise  pour  Monsieur  ! 

It  would  not  of  course  entitle  a  man  to  a  divorce  to  have 
his  wife's  eyes  in  the  wrong  place.  This  state  of  affairs  has 
been  known  to  exist  many  times.  If  a  man  has  what  he  calls 
"  private  affairs  "  and  his  wife's  eyes  regard  them,  they  are 
always  in  the  wrong  place — but  even  then,  eyes  for  a  woman 


i88  I  MYSELF 

are  not  necessary.  There  is  instinct — George  Moore  says 
every  woman  knows  when  the  wolf  is  at  her  door.  But  if 
she  does  what  can  she  do  ?  The  wisest  thing  is  to  leave 
the  man  to  be  gobbled  up,  for  if  the  wolf  is  really  at  the  door 
it  is  by  the  man's  invitation.  A  clever  wife  may,  on  occasion, 
make  her  husband  go  her  way,  but  never,  never,  if  he  has 
begun  to  go  some  other  woman's  way.  And  the  wolf's  way 
and  the  wife's  way  are  so  essentially  different — there  might 
as  well  be  a  parting  at  once. 

George  Augustus  Sala  was  a  very  remarkable  journalist ; 
he  could  write  on  almost  any  conceivable  subject.  His  mind 
was  more  assimilative  than  original,  but  he  knew  a  great  deal, 
and  how  to  apply  it.  Also  he  realized  his  own  limitations, 
and  was  quite  without  vanity.  The  late  Mr  Levy  of  the 
"  Daily  Telegraph  "  once  asked  him  :  "  Mr  Sala,  have  you  any 
objection  to  our  editing  your  copy  in  the  office  ?  "  "Mr 
Levy,"  Mr  Sala  answered,  "  I  am  like  a  butcher.  I  sell  you 
so  much  meat — to  me  it  is  a  matter  of  profound  indifference 
whether  you  serve  it  fried,  boiled,  or  roasted." 

This  reply  from  a  seasoned  journalist  might  serve  as  a 
lesson  to  many  a  budding  writer.  Mr  Sala  had,  in  the  long 
years  of  his  service  as  a  journalist,  managed,  composed  and 
arranged  for  himself  a  great  number  of  books  of  reference. 
He  was  very  methodical,  and  with  his  superb  memory  it  was 
possible  for  him  to  turn  out  a  readable  article  in  a  very  short 
space  of  time.  His  first  marriage  was  a  most  fortunate  one. 
Mrs  Sala  was  handsome,  sensible,  and  a  genius  as  a  cook  and 
housekeeper.  He  was  never  (except  for  occasional  spurts  of 
brilliancy)  the  same  after  her  death.  He  had  her  head  fres- 
coed on  the  hall  ceiling  of  their  pretty,  old-world  house  in 
Mecklenburgh  Square,  so  that  he  might  on  entering  the  hall 
look  up  and  be  welcomed  by  her,  and  her  dresses  he  still 
kept  hanging  in  the  cupboards  among  his  own  clothes,  saying 
that  only  to  see  a  garment  she  had  worn  gave  comfort  to 
his  grieved  and  lonely  soul. 

At  the  first  little  tea-party  given  after  he  became  a  widower, 
his  friends  discovered  in  a  little  case  close  to  his  writing- 
table,  where  by  turning  his  eyes  he  could  see  them,  his  wife's 


GEORGE  AUGUSTUS  SALA       189 

thimble  and  needles  and  threads,  and  keys,  and  scissors,  and 
watch  and  purse — all  the  small  intimate  things  of  her  daily 
life.  It  was  his  habit  while  he  worked  to  touch  them  with 
his  hand,  saying,  "  My  dear,  my  poor  dear  !  "  She  had  been 
indeed  his  better,  saner  helpmate  and  friend  ;  for,  when  he 
was  irascible  and  inclined  to  quarrel  with  his  editors,  it  was 
his  wife  who  smoothed  out  differences  and  made  the  peace 
for  him.  Without  knowing  it  he  had  leaned  upon  her  strong 
common-sense  and  her  judgment,  and  he  was  never  to  find 
rest  and  peace  without  her.  His  last  days,  in  spite  of  the 
fine  income  he  had  made,  were  spent  in  pain  and  humiliation, 
although  lightened  by  the  kindness  of  disinterested  friends 
like  Lord  Burnham,  Henry  Labouchere  and  others,  who 
left  nothing  undone  for  him.  But  his  valuable  library  had  to 
be  sold,  including  his  reference  books.  When  he  realized  his 
loss  he  wept  bitterly  and  begged  to  have  them  back  again, 
saying,  "  My  children,  my  children — my  books,  my  dear 
books  that  were  my  children  !  Give  them  back  to  me  ! 
Give  them  back  to  me  !  "  He  wailed  out  this  cry  all  through 
the  night  and  never  fully  recovered  again. 

"  Who  never  ate  his  bread  in  sorrow, 

Who  never  spent  the  midnight  hours 
Weeping  and  waiting  for  the  morrow, 
He  knows  you  not,  ye  Heavenly  Powers  !  " 

I  pray  that  when  the  morrow  came  after  his  weeping 
and  waiting  the  Heavenly  Powers  were  merciful  in  giving 
him  back  his  "  poor,  poor  dear  one  "  for  all  eternity  ! 

With  his  exuberant  health  and  bright  spirits,  William 
Black  looked  as  if  he  would  live  for  years,  and  yet  he  is 
sleeping  in  the  pretty  churchyard  at  Rottingdean,  near  the 
sea,  which  he  loved  so  well,  and  only  a  few  feet  away  from 
his  friend,  Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones — whom  I  met  only  once, 
in  the  studio  of  Henry  Holiday,  that  distinguished  artist,  the 
executor  of  the  beautiful  stained-glass  window  designed  by 
Edward  Burne- Jones  which  so  adorns  and  distinguishes  the 
quaint  little  church  of  Rottingdean. 

One  of  the  most  touching  pictures  in  all  the  world  to  me 


i9o  I  MYSELF 

is,  "  The  Merciful  Knight  "  by  Burne-Jones.  The  first  time  I 
saw  it  the  pitiful  tears  came  to  my  eyes.  The  rude  cross  is 
by  the  wayside,  with  the  rugged  figure  of  Christ,  which  has 
slightly  loosened  itself  from  the  Cross  and  is  bending  over  the 
kneeling  knight,  who,  with  bowed  head,  is  praying  for  moral 
courage  not  to  fight.  How  often  the  highest  and  noblest 
courage  is  to  leave  the  sword  in  its  scabbard  !  That  turning 
of  the  other  cheek — oh  dear,  how  difficult  !  When  Toodie 
was  about  four  years  old,  we  were  at  the  Berkeley  Springs  in 
Virginia,  and  he  came  to  me  where  I  was  sitting  with  a  group 
of  friends  on  one  of  the  wide  porticos,  crying,  and  said, 
"  Mamma,  a  boy  hit  me  !  " 

"  Did  you,"  I  said,  "  hit  him  back  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  the  child  answered. 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  go  straight  back  and  hit  him." 

Fanny  Tate,  a  charming,  fascinating  woman  from  South 
Carolina,  with  the  heavenly  accent  and  drawl  of  that  dear 
country  said,  "  It's  plain  to  be  seen  this  child's  mother  is 
from  Texas." 

I  hadn't  seen  "  The  Merciful  Knight  "  then. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

RED  INDIANS  AND  THE  MAZE 

WHEN  Buffalo  Bill  brought  the  "  Wild  West  "  show 
to  London  for  the  first  time,  it  was  a  colossal 
success,  and  he  was  overwhelmed  by  hospitality, 
which  he  returned  with  a  number  of  American  lunches 
cooked  by  his  friend,  Colonel  James,  who,  like  the  late  Sam 
Ward,    was    a    cordon    bleu.      The    dishes    were    typically 
American,  and  the  menu  consisted  of  : — 

Corn  beef  hash,  and  buttered  corn  bread. 

Chickens  fried  in  cream,  green  peas  and  hot  biscuits. 

Porterhouse  steak  and  corn  fritters. 

Peach  ice  cream. 

Cheese. 

Superb  coffee. 

Cocktails  in  abundance. 

After  the  lunch,  visiting  the  cowboys  and  the  Indians,  it 
occurred  to  Mrs  Labouchere  to  ask  all  the  chiefs  and  their 
families  to  spend  a  Sunday  at  Twickenham,  and  to  see  the 
inside  of  an  English  house.  They  accepted  the  invitation 
eagerly,  and  were  expected  about  2  o'clock  on  the  Sunday 
following,  but  not  later  than  ten  in  the  morning  I  ran  into 
Mrs  Labouchere's  bedroom  and  cried,  "  Henrietta,  the 
Indians  have  come  !  " 

As  it  was  Sunday  morning  and  we  were  taking  things  in 
leisurely  fashion,  nobody  was  dressed,  and  there  they  were 
for  a  good  long  day — Indian  braves,  squaws  and  babies, 
all  in  costumes  befitting  a  visit  to  a  great  white  chief,  as  they 
were  instructed  Mr  Labouchere  was,  a  chief  in  Parliament. 


192  I  MYSELF 

We  made  quick  toilettes,  and  were  soon  downstairs, 
where  they  were  all  assembled.  The  interpreter  said  they  had 
been  up  since  dawn  and  he  had  had  difficulty  in  keeping  them 
from  starting  on  the  seven  o'clock  train  to  Twickenham. 

A  steam-launch  had  been  engaged  to  convey  them  to 
Hampton  Court,  and  while  waiting  for  its  arrival  they  were 
shown  the  garden,  and  Mr  Labouchere  told  them  to  help 
themselves  to  gooseberries  and  red  currants — whereupon 
they  descended  upon  the  bushes  like  devouring  locusts,  and 
in  a  very  short  time  there  was  not  a  berry,  ripe  or  green,  left. 

The  great  chief,  "  Up  the  River,"  looked  like  a  feathered 
Gladstone.  His  face  was  fine  and  even  noble,  and  he  was 
not  the  least  overawed  by  anything  he  saw.  He  reared  his 
crest  like  a  hawk  and  looked  around  the  garden  as  if  he 
owned  it,  and  leisurely  seating  himself  with  his  braves  all 
around  him  in  a  circle,  he  signified  to  the  interpreter  his  desire 
to  make  a  little  speech  to  the  White  Chief.  He  said,  "  My 
heart  thanks  you  for  remembering  the  Red  Man  and  for 
asking  him  to  your  wigwam.  My  heart  is  happy  with  the 
beauty  of  this  country  and  this  garden,  and  I  will  never 
forget  this  day.  When  the  great  White  Chief  visits  my 
country,  my  heart  will  be  filled  with  joy,  and  I  will  send  him 
a  message  of  welcome  from  my  heart." 

Surely  this  was  the  speech  of  a  courtier,  and  Mr  Labouchere 
replied  with  equal  politeness. 

Their  gay  costumes,  brilliant  feathers,  and  brown  painted 
faces  looked  most  picturesque  on  the  launch.  Nothing 
escaped  their  bright  watchful  eyes,  and  at  Hampton  Court, 
when  they  were  shown  the  Maze,  Mrs  Labouchere  settled 
herself  for  a  comfortable  rest,  but  lo,  they  were  no  sooner 
in  at  one  end,  than  out  they  came  at  the  other.  They  did  not 
even  know  it  was  a  Maze — to  them  it  was  only  a  pleasant 
simple  little  walk.  There  was  quite  a  crowd  collected  by 
this  time,  but  they  were  apparently  oblivious  of  everybody, 
and  without  a  turn  of  the  head  walked  as  proudly  as  if  alone 
in  a  primeval  forest.  Was  it  not  Washington  Irving  who,  in 
a  burst  of  admiration,  said,  "  The  only  gentleman  in  America 
was  the  Red  Indian  "  ? 


RED  INDIANS  AND  THE  MAZE  193 

After  the  voyage  back,  an  old  English  dinner,  a  grand 
affair,  was  set  on  the  leafy  balcony  of  Pope's  Villa.  There  was 
roast  beef,  baked  potatoes,  Yorkshire  pudding,  chicken  and 
peas,  and  a  Christmas  plum  pudding.  The  roast  beef  was 
very  popular  ;  they  ate  a  few  peas  and  drank  tea  and  coffee, 
but  the  pudding  was  carried  away  in  a  beaded  bag,  which 
each  Indian  wore  at  his  side.  The  bag  already  contained 
a  wonderful  mixture  of  gooseberries,  grapes,  biscuits,  cigar- 
ettes, and  cake.  When  Mrs  Labouchere  said,  "  More  meat," 
one  of  the  young  Indians  looked  at  her  with  a  broad  smile, 
and  the  Interpreter  explained  that  Moremeat  was  his  name, 
that  he  was  a  Chippeway,  and  then  Mr  Labouchere  dis- 
covered him  to  be  a  descendant  of  one  of  the  friends  of  his 
very  earliest  youth. 

Nearly  sixty  years  ago  Henry  Labouchere,  then  an 
adventurous  lad,  made  a  journey  in  the  West  of  America. 
Minneapolis  was  at  that  time  called  St  Anthony's  Falls,  and 
while  he  was  there  a  far-seeing  young  chemist  begged  him 
to  buy  the  land  on  which  Minneapolis  stands — it  was  to  be 
sold  for  a  very  small  sum,  now  it  is  worth  many  millions. 
He  travelled  still  farther  west  with  the  Chippeways,  who  were 
going  to  their  hunting  fields.  The  great  chief,  "  Hole  in 
Heaven,"  was  very  friendly  with  him,  and  he  camped  in  one 
of  their  wigwams  for  six  weeks,  the  sister  of  the  Chief  being 
assigned  to  wait  upon  him.  She  cooked  game  to  perfection, 
roasting  wild  birds  in  clay  and  larger  game  before  a  fire. 
The  game  in  those  days  was  very  plentiful  and  tame,  not 
having  found  out  man  to  be  their  avowed  enemy.  Some- 
times prairie  chickens  came  near  enough  to  be  knocked  on 
the  head,  and  great  herds  of  buffaloes  still  ranged  the  plains. 
The  Indians  often  killed  a  buffalo,  but  Mr  Labouchere  was  not 
lucky  enough  to  get  one  for  himself.  He  saw  an  Indian  War 
Dance,  but  discreetly  from  a  slit  in  the  door  of  his  wigwam, 
as  "  Hole  in  Heaven  "  said  that,  friendly  as  they  were,  at  this 
sacred  rite  a  white  face  might  infuriate  them  even  to  the  use 
of  the  tomahawk.  And  another  most  interesting  custom 
was  seeing  the  youths  of  the  tribe  transformed  to  braves. 
This  is  done  by  physical  suffering,  inflicted  by  other  warriors. 

13 


194  I  MYSELF 

The  greater  the  torture,  the  greater  the  brave.  Sharpened 
sticks  are  run  through  the  tender  skin  on  the  breast,  and 
forcibly  pulled  out,  making  when  healed  great  scarred  ridges 
of  flesh.  Leather  thongs  are  bound  round  ankles  and  wrists 
until  they  cut  into  the  flesh  like  a  knife,  leaving  it  raw  and 
bleeding.  These  and  other  tortures  the  young  Indian  bears 
without  a  murmur,  but  sometimes  a  coward  is  found  who 
utterly  refuses  all  hurt ;  even  a  good  venomous  scratch  will 
save  him  from  utter  disgrace,  but  if  he  refuse  this  much,  the 
penalty  is  an  apparent  change  of  sex.  He  wears  a  squaw's 
dress  until  the  ban  is  lifted.  To  the  uninitiated  eye  the 
difference  is  nothing,  as  women  and  men  dress  so  much  alike, 
but  to  the  Indian  it  is  everything. 

Mr  Labouchere  lingered  among  these  American  gentlemen 
until  the  last  steamer  had  departed  from  Fond  du  Lac,  so  he 
was  obliged  to  travel  in  a  canoe  until  he  reached  the  eastern 
end  of  the  lake — and  these  early  experiences  have  always 
kept  his  interest  in  the  Red  Man  alive. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

IN  GERMANY  IT  IS  THE  LAW 

ONE  summer  in  Schwalbach  a  philanthropic  English 
woman  asked  a  belle  dame  from  Florida,  "  And  don't 
you  like  the  negroes  ?  " 

"  Very  much,"  the  American  answered,  "  in  my  kitchen. 
I  don't  want  them  in  my  drawing-room." 

Now  this  lady's  attitude  to  the  negro  represents  mine  to 
the  calf.  I  love  him  in  the  field — I  don't  want  him  on  the 
dining-room  table.  It  is  hard,  however,  to  escape  him  in 
Germany,  where  he  seems  one  of  the  staple  products  of  the 
country — and  a  tragic  moment  arose  in  my  experience  when 
unless  I  resorted  to  extreme  measures  it  was  impossible  to 
get  away  from  him  at  all.  It  grew,  as  these  things  do,  out 
of  a  thoughtless  piece  of  advice  given  by  a  most  convincing 
Englishman.  It  was  a  heavenly  sunshiny  day  and  we  were 
walking  to  the  station  preparatory  to  my  making  a  journey 
to  Baden-Baden,  which  is  comparatively  near  Schwalbach  ; 
but  requiring  four  changes,  with  waiting  here  and  there,  to 
make  connections  it  bade  fair  to  be  a  whole  day's  journey. 

As  we  passed  a  field  a  number  of  spotted  calves  frisked 
gaily  in  the  sunshine. 

"  Dear  me,"  I  remarked,  "  how  surprising  that  so  many 
calves  are  left  in  Germany." 

My  friend  replied,  "  That's  because  we've  boycotted  veal 
in  our  hotel." 

"  Now  where,"  I  asked,  "  can  one  find  a  hotel  in  Wies- 
baden where  veal  is  boycotted,  or  do  you  know  a  good 
restaurant  there  ?  " 

My  faith  in  man  is  perennial,  in  spite  of  the  many  times 


196  I  MYSELF 

he  has  disappointed  me.  I  go  on  asking  for  advice,  taking 
it,  and  suffering  afterwards  just  the  same,  instead  of  using 
my  own  better  judgment.  There  is  something  so  cocksure 
about  the  way  a  man  tells  you  anything  that  somehow, 
in  spite  of  yourself,  you  feel  he  must  be  right.  So  when 
my  friend  answered  confidently,  "  Don't  go  to  a  hotel  or 
restaurant  at  all — just  take  lunch  in  the  station,"  it  seemed 
quite  the  best  thing  to  do. 

"  I  recollect,"  he  went  on,  "  having  such  an  appetizing 
meal  once  in  quite  a  small  German  station  :  fresh  eggs, 
broiled  chicken,  and  green  peas," — and  he  talked  so  well, 
and  so  eloquently,  about  that  dejeuner  that  I  got  quite  hungry 
before  he  finished,  and  would  not  have  eaten  lunch  any- 
where but  in  a  German  railway  station. 

On  arriving  at  Wiesbaden  I  too  would  order  chicken,  peas 
and  fresh  eggs,  served  in  the  waiting-room.  I  must  say 
the  griminess  of  the  room  and  the  stale  smell  of  beer  was  not 
suggestive  of  a  crisp  meal,  but  still  under  the  spell  of  broiled 
chicken  I  asked  cheerfully  of  the  waiter,  "  Was  haben  Sie  ?  " 

Waiter  :   "  Kalbs  Kotlett  und  Kartoffeln." 

Me  :   "  Nichts  Anderes  ?  " 

Waiter  :  "  Nein,  das  Kotlett  ist  aber  sehr  gut." 

I  was  already  tired,  and  with  the  prospect  of  a  day's  travel 
before  me  it  seemed  wise  to  eat  something ;  and  I  was 
reluctant  to  go  to  the  town.  My  luggage  had  yet  to  be 
labelled  and  the  tickets  to  be  bought,  but  the  ticket  office 
was  still  "  geschlossen,"  so  I  succumbed  to  the  force  of 
circumstances  and  ordered  a  veal  cutlet  and  fried  potatoes. 

My  seat  at  the  table  was  by  the  side  of  a  woman  who  had 
already  given  her  order,  and  presently  the  waiter  returned 
bearing  her  lunch.  On  a  thick,  large  plate  reposed  a  pen- 
insular-shaped cutlet,  the  size  of  a  small  ham.  It  was 
submerged  in  thick,  greasy  gravy  ;  and  on  another  plate 
a  mound  of  fried  potatoes  had  been  carefully  built  up,  with 
bubbles  of  fat  still  sizzling  on  them — and  I  had  been  sent  all 
the  way  from  England  to  Germany  to  cure  my  indigestion  ! 
I  gazed  upon  this  stupendous  sight  with  horror.  It  was  not 
necessary  to  eat  to  induce  discomfort — the  sight  and  the 


IN  GERMANY  IT  IS  THE  LAW  197 

smell  was  enough.     I  was  already  suffering  agonies.     Calling 
the  waiter,  I  countermanded  the  order. 

"  I  cannot  eat  the  cutlet — I  am  ill,"  I  explained. 

"  But  you  must  eat  it,"  the  waiter  answered.  "  In 
Germany  if  you  order  a  good  kalbs  cutlet  you  must  eat 
it." 

"  But  I  am  ill !  " 

"  Es  schadet  nichts.  You  ordered  it.  It  will  be  got  ready. 
You  must  pay  for  it." 

Ah,  there  was  the  crux.     "  You  must  pay  for  it." 

"  No,"  I  answered,  "  I  countermanded  the  order  at  once. 
I  won't  eat  the  cutlet,  and  I  won't  pay  for  it."  Then  I 
got  up  and  went  to  the  office  to  buy  my  tickets.  Presently 
there  was  a  tumult.  The  waiter  appeared  with  the  man  who 
owned  the  cutlet. 

"  There,  there  is  the  English  dame  who  won't  take  the 
Kotlett,"  the  waiter  was  excitedly  saying. 

The  man  approached  me.  "  Are  you  the  lady  who  ordered 
the  Kalbs  Kotlett  and  won't  eat  it  ?  You  must.  In 
Germany  one  may  not  order  a  Kotlett  and  not  eat  it." 

Receiving  no  answer  they  retired,  but  it  was  only  in  order 
to  gather  a  reinforcement  to  continue  hostilities.  Meantime 
the  luggage  having  been  registered  I  had  gone  to  the  other 
side  of  the  station  in  the  wake  of  my  trunks.  Suddenly  the 
waiter  reappeared,  his  face  scarlet  with  emotion,  his  hair 
standing  up  like  a  cockatoo's.  He  was  accompanied  by  the 
man  and  a  woman,  all  of  them  talking  vociferously  with  the 
countersign  "  Kalbs  Kotlett."  They  all  appealed  to  me. 
The  waiter  actually  wrung  his  hands  with  anguish. 

The  woman  said,  "  Eine  Englibhe  Frau  die  sich  eine  Dame 
nennt  und  sich  weigert  ein  schones  deutsches  Kalbs  Kotlett 
zu  essen,  das  ist  unverschamt  !  "  ("  An  Englishwoman, 
calling  herself  a  lady,  to  refuse  to  eat  a  good  German 
veal  cutlet — it  was  shameful.") 

The  man  said,  "  So,  so  !     We  shall  see." 

They  then  laid  the  case  before  the  guard  of  the  train,  who 
listened  with  much  interest,  but  said  he  could  not  interfere. 
"  Tickets," — yes,  if  I  gave  him  any  trouble  about  my 


ig8  I  MYSELF 

tickets  th^y  should  see.  A  Kalbs  Kotlett  was  not  his 
province,  so,  reprehensible  as  my  conduct  was,  they  must 
settle  it  themselves. 

The  restaurant  man  said  something  must  be  done.  The 
woman  said,  "  Send  for  the  Polizei."  The  waiter  scuttled 
off  hatless  and  breathless,  quickly  returning  with  a  big,  good- 
looking,  steady-eyed  policeman. 

"  What  is  the  trouble  ?  "  he  said. 

The  waiter,  the  restaurant  keeper,  and  the  woman,  all 
talked  breathlessly  together. 

"  The  English  dame  had  commanded  a  Kalbs  Kotlett ; 
then  she  wouldn't  eat  it,  and  she  wouldn't  pay  for  it.  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  " 

The  Polizei  fixed  me  with  a  stern  eye  and  began,  "  Warum 
haben  Sie  das  Kalbs  Kotlett  nicht  gegessen  ?  " 

My  answer  was,  "  I  don't  speak  German." 

The  waiter  interposed,  "  Oh,  but  she  does — she  speaks 
very  good  German,  and  understands  Alles." 

The  Polizei  waved  him  aside.  "  Warum  haben  Sie  das 
gute  Kalbs  Kotlett  nicht  gegessen  ?  "  Like  Brer  Rabbit, 
"  I  laid  low  and  said  nothin'."  He  continued,  "  In  Germany, 
if  one  orders  a  Kalbs  Kotlett,  one  must  eat  it  and  pay  for 
it,  or  pay  for  it  if  one  eats  it  not.  That  is  the  law." 

The  waiter,  the  restaurant  man,  and  the  woman  all 
solemnly  repeated,  "  That  is  the  law." 

The  guard  said,  "  That  is  the  law."  One  or  two  out- 
siders to  whom  the  waiter  had  explained  the  situation  said, 
"  That  is  the  law." 

Still  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  remained  silent.  Suddenly 
the  empty  blue  eyes  of  the  Polizei  lighted  up  with  wonderful 
intelligence.  "  Bring  the  Kotlett,"  he  said.  "  Bring  the 
potatoes,"  he  said. 

The  waiter  shot  by  me  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow.  In  a 
second  he  ran  back,  carrying  a  twin  Kotlett  to  the  first 
peninsular-shaped  one  I  had  seen,  and  a  second  pyramid  of 
fried  potatoes,  both  of  which  he  reverently  placed  on  my 
trunk. 

The   Polizei  began   to  look  hungry.     He  looked  affec- 


IN  GERMANY  IT  IS  THE  LAW  199 

tionately  at  the  Kotlett.  "  Ein  sehr  gutes  Kotlett,"  he 
said.  "  Why  haven't  you  eaten  this  good  cutlet  ?  " 

A  wicked  plan  entered  my  head.     I  would  have  revenge. 

"  Wie  viel  ?  "   I  asked  the  waiter. 

"  Zwei  mark  fiinfzig." 

I  laid  the  money  on  the  trunk.  He  pounced  on  it  like 
a  hawk  on  a  tomtit. 

"  So,"  said  the  Polizei. 

"So,"  I  repeated,  and  with  a  quick  deftness  of  which  I 
thought  myself  incapable,  I  threw  the  cutlet  in  the  middle 
of  the  station,  just  grazing  the  leg  of  the  law,  and  it  was 
quickly  followed  by  a  generous  shower  of  fried  potatoes. 

The  policeman  gave  a  suppressed  cry,  as  if  a  knife  had 
stabbed  him  to  the  heart.  I  had  thrown  away  his  dinner, 
his  nice  greasy  dinner  for  which  I  had  paid. 

"  In  Deutschland  ist  es  nicht  erlaubt  Kotletts  und  kartof- 
feln  auf  dem  Bahnhof  zu  werfen.  Es  ist  nicht  erlaubt." 
(In  Germany  it  is  not  allowed  to  throw  cutlets  and  potatoes 
in  the  station — it  is  not  allowed.) 

For  the  first  time  since  I  ordered  the  cutlet  my  tongue 
was  loosed.  "  What  can  you  throw  in  a  station  ?  "  I  asked. 

Solemnly  he  replied,  "  Not  potatoes — not  Kalbs  Kotlett." 

Again  a  gleam  of  intelligence  entered  his  bovine  eye. 
"  Sie  miissen  es  aufheben."  (You  must  pick  them  up.) 
"  In  Germany  if  you  throw  potatoes  and  Kalbs  Kotletts  in  a 
station  you  must  pick  them  up.  That  is  the  law." 

"  Never,"  I  answered.  "  Never."  (The  train  was  just 
starting — I  became  bold.)  "I  will  leave  you  to  pick  them  up." 

This  impudence  was  followed  by  a  few  seconds  of  horrified 
silence,  then  the  voice  of  the  woman  pierced  it  in  a  shrill  scream. 

"  Ach,  Gott  in  Himmel !  Die  Englische  Dame  has 
ordered  the  Polizei  to  pick  up  the  cutlet  and  the  potatoes  !  " 

The  Polizei  said,  "  In  Germany  it  is  the  law " 

Then  a  great  clamour  arose,  but  I  jumped  on  the  train, 
which  was  just  moving  out  of  the  station.  And  as  far  as  I 
could  see,  the  brilliant  sun  lighted  up  the  fine,  silver  helmet 
of  the  Polizei,  the  bronze  brown  of  the  Kalbs  Kotlett,  and 
the  pale  gold  of  the  fried  potatoes. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  BROAD  DAYLIGHT 

IN  all  the  many  summers  spent  by  me  in  Germany,  I  had 
never  seen  Heidelberg.  Hand-made  scars,  smooth 
scars,  ridged  scars,  manufactured  by  Heidelberg  duels 
— yes,  deep  red  scars,  purple  scars,  and  white  scars,  proudly 
worn  on  the  plump  cheeks  of  the  young  officers  who,  well 
corseted,  clicked  their  spurs  together  in  Wiesbaden,  in  Horn- 
burg,  in  Kreuznach,  and  in  Schwalbach — all  these  I  had 
seen,  but  not  Heidelberg.  The  scars  were  only  amusing,  and 
Heidelberg  I  knew  to  be  beautiful.  So  I  determined,  in  spite 
of  being  the  loneliest  and  the  worst  traveller  in  the  world, 
always  late  and  always  anxious  and  distracted,  to  break  my 
journey  from  Schwalbach  to  Baden,  at  Heidelberg. 

The  weather  was  so  lovely  that  I  stayed  at  a  country  hotel 
beyond  the  town,  and  wandered  solitarily  over  the  wonderful 
romantic  ruins  of  the  Castle  by  moonlight.  The  hotel  gave 
me  an  excellent  little  dinner,  and — an  unusual  thing  for  me — 
I  slept  deeply  and  dreamlessly  until  late  the  next  morning. 
When  the  Boots  knocked  at  my  door  there  was  barely  ten 
minutes  for  me  to  dress  and  to  take  a  hasty  cup  of  coffee  in 
my  room.  I  asked  in  my  best  German — which  as  usual 
miscarried — "  Am  I  to  be  alone  in  the  omnibus  ?  " 

'  Yes,  yes,"  the  porter  said,  "  hurry  if  you  wish  to  catch 
the  train  " — and  down  I  rushed  pell-mell,  thinking  to  finish 
the  details  of  my  toilette  in  the  omnibus.  The  ribbons  of 
my  shoes  were  flowing,  my  cuffs  were  unbuttoned,  my  neck-tie 
not  yet  tied,  my  hat-pins,  veil  and  belt  were  in  my  hand, 
and  my  gloves  were  stuffed  in  my  little  hand-bag.  Trembling 
like  a  leaf,  I  was  handing  out  tips  to  the  last  moment,  and 


SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  BROAD  DAYLIGHT    201 

when  I  was  pushed  and  literally  fell  into  the  omnibus,  there 
sat  a  tall,  fair,  composed,  immaculate  being  with  monocle, 
umbrella  tightly  wrapped,  gloves  well  fitting,  and  overcoat 
neatly  folded  by  his  side,  regarding  my  discomfiture  with  a 
kindly  wooden  expression,  too  polite  to  allow  even  the 
slightest  soupfon  of  a  smile  to  appear  on  his  well-groomed 
face.  So  I  composed  myself,  tied  my  necktie  and  pinned  it, 
buttoned  my  cuffs,  buckled  my  belt,  put  my  watch  in  it, 
straightened  my  hat,  prodded  it  with  hat-pins,  pinned  on  my 
veil,  and  was  just  about  to  descend  upon  my  shoes,  when  the 
Monocle  said  in  very  good  authoritative  English,  "  Pardon, 
permit  me," — and  leaning  forward,  instantly  the  shoe- 
strings were  tied  in  good,  firm,  wouldn't-come- undone  bows  ; 
then,  lifting  his  hat,  he  sat  up  very  straight  again  and  con- 
siderately looked  out  of  the  window. 

I  said  to  myself,  "  He's  married,  he's  a  good  husband,  he 
ties  his  wife's  shoes,  he  likes  all  women — and  he's  a  nice, 
safe  creature."  By  the  time  my  gloves  were  buttoned  we 
had  reached  the  station.  He  lifted  his  hat  again  and  asked 
if  he  could  attend  to  my  luggage.  I  said  he  could,  and  he 
did.  Also  at  the  very  last  moment  he  had  to  leap  from  the 
train,  dash  back  to  the  omnibus  and  rescue  my  Tiffany 
umbrella — the  one  with  a  tortoiseshell  handle  so  well  known, 
and  so  often  found,  at  Scotland  Yard.  What  with  the 
toilette,  the  shoes  and  the  umbrella,  by  the  time  the  train 
started  there  was  quite  a  domestic  atmosphere  between  us. 
At  any  rate  he  had  some  sort  of  understanding  of  my  help- 
lessness, and  I  of  his  good  nature  and  obligingness. 

He  sat  down  beside  me  in  the  train  and  we  began  to  talk. 
He  told  me  he  was  a  Swede,  a  civil  engineer,  who  had 
worked  for  five  years  at  his  profession  in  London,  hence  his 
good  English.  He  lived  in  Stockholm,  and  was  on  his  way 
to  an  International  Convention  of  Engineers  at  Baden-Baden. 
He  had  married  a  lovely  Norwegian,  who  had  dreamed  of 
becoming  a  great  singer,  and  had  studied  in  Paris  with  Grieg's 
encouragement,  who  said  she  might  develop  into  a  Christine 
Nilsson  in  time,  but  the  Monocle  bade  her  choose  between  a 
career  and  himself,  and  now  she  was  singing  lullabies  to  the 


202  I  MYSELF 

first  baby.  He  brought  forth  a  little  leather  case  from  his 
pocket,  and  there  was  Madame,  a  radiant  blonde,  and  the 
baby,  so  fat  that  his  wrists  and  ankles  seemed  tied  with 
string,  and  his  broad  smile  showed  four  fine  Norwegian 
teeth,  and  he  looked  altogether  a  credit  to  his  parents.  The 
Monocle  was  a  most  fond  and  proud  father,  and  when  I  said 
his  offspring  looked  a  baby  Viking  he  was  amazingly  pleased. 

In  the  course  of  the  conversation,  which  covered  many 
subjects,  he  spoke  of  "  M.  A.  P.,"  and  said  he  had  learned 
much  of  his  English  from  it,  and  his  choice  of  English 
literature  was  decided  by  the  "  Book  of  the  Week  "  in  the 
"  Sunday  Sun."  I  informed  him  that  my  husband  edited 
both  of  the  papers,  and  then  we  were  completely  in  sympathy 
and  at  our  ease.  He  told  me  that  he  was  arresting  his 
journey  to  Baden-Baden  by  stopping  at  Carlsruhe  for  a 
couple  of  hours — he  wanted  to  see  the  Castle  of  the  Grand 
Duke  of  Baden-Baden,  as  the  Crown  Princess  of  Sweden 
had  been  born  there,  and  in  a  small  gallery  there  was  a 
noted  collection  of  etchings,  and  the  Botanical  Garden 
was  among  the  celebrated  small  ones  of  Europe,  containing 
many  rare  and  beautiful  plants.  Wouldn't  I — and  he  was 
very  deferential — "  make  him  a  great  pleasure  and  stop  over 
for  a  couple  of  hours  at  Carlsruhe :  all  tourists  should  see 
Carlsruhe  " — the  Botanical  Garden  was  the  bait,  for  I  will 
travel  any  distance  to  see  a  garden — and  trusting  that  no 
tourists  would  be  in  Carlsruhe  except  ourselves — for  how 
could  I  introduce  a  man  whose  name  I  didn't  know,  and 
was  too  polite  to  ask  ?  Fortune  favoured  me — we  had  the 
place  to  ourselves,  and  the  miniature  castle  and  little  red- 
nosed  soldiers  were  vastly  amusing,  and  just  suited  our 
innocent  adventure.  A  Grand  Duchess  de  Gerolstein  with 
le  sabre  de  mon  pere  was  alone  needed  to  make  the  scene 
perfect.  The  etchings  were  nothing,  but  the  garden,  with 
the  hot  August  sun  shining  on  its  wealth  of  flowers  and 
blossoming  shrubs,  and  bringing  out  the  myriad  different 
odours,  was  divine. 

The  Monocle  spoke  excellent  German,  and  induced  the 
gardener  to  part  with  a  big  bunch  of  lemon  verbena  which 


SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  BROAD  DAYLIGHT    203 

I  tied  up  in  my  pocket-handkerchief.  It  was  a  pungent 
reminder  of  that  Arabian  Nights  garden  of  my  youth 
where  almost  everything  known  in  botany  bloomed  under 
the  persuasive  genius  of  my  mother's  hand. 

We  lunched  on  the  balcony  of  an  open-air  restaurant, 
with  honeysuckle  and  purple  passion-flowers  dangling  over 
our  heads.  The  rescued  umbrella  tilted  against  my  chair, 
the  restaurant  dog  leaning  his  head  against  me,  and  a  bottle 
of  Liebfrauenmilch  was  daintily  folded  in  a  napkin  between 
us.  We  were  talking  only  about  seeds  and  grafting,  but  the 
engineer  had  gathered  a  stalk  to  show  me  how  he  did  it, 
when  along  came  a  travelling  photographer  and  asked  to 
photograph  us.  The  Monocle  said  "  Yes,  yes,"  and  before 
the  lunch  was  finished  we  had  two  pictures  of  a  comfortable, 
highly- domestic  character  presented  to  us.  I  have  known  a 
good  many  men  in  my  life — I  was  married  very  young,  and 
have  had  a  number  of  friends,  some  suitors,  and  hosts  of 
acquaintances,  among  the  opposite  sex — but  it  just  so 
happens  I  was  never  photographed  with  anyone  of  them 
except  that  strange  Swede.  How  I  shook  with  laughter 
over  that  group  !  I  didn't  know  the  man — I  didn't  know 
the  dog — I  didn't  drink  the  wine — and  yet  it  is  said  that 
photographs  cannot  lie  ! 

"  What,"  asked  the  Monocle,  "  amuses  you  so  ?  " 

"  The  unexpected,"  I  said.  "  The  only  people  who  will 
be  more  surprised  than  you  and  I  over  this  friendly  photo- 
graph are  your  wife  and  my  husband  !  " 

I  shall  never  see  the  Monocle  again,  nor  Carlsruhe,  nor  the 
Botanical  Gardens,  nor  the  dog — nor  do  I  regret  them.  And 
I  was  advised  by  the  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty,  then 
Reginald  M'Kenna,  and  his  family,  never  to  disclose  this 
dark  secret  of  my  life  for  fear  of  being  "  misunderstood," 
whatever  that  may  be.  But  I  must  ever  have  someone  to 
share  a  secret,  so  I  chose  Max  Beerbohm,  dear  Max,  who 
with  his  risible  temperament  laughed  unrestrainedly,  and 
straightway  made  a  free  interpretation  of  the  photograph. 

"  But,  Max,"  I  objected,  "  you've  left  out  the  dog  and 
put  in  a  cupid  !  " 


204  I  MYSELF 

"  Of  course  I  have,"  he  said,  "  for  in  spite  of  your  account 
of  the  episode,  I  shall  always  think  of  that  Swede  eating  his 
heart  out  in  the  long  future,  across  the  seas  and  the  years." 
But  that  was  only  a  pretty  compliment  from  Max. 

"  And  really  and  truly,"  said  Mr  Labouchere,  who  can 
never  quite  get  over  the  old-fashioned  idea  of  "  gallantry  " 
to  women,  "  was  there  never  a  moment  of  sentiment  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  never — I  am  a  modern  woman,  and  there 
was  my  sense  of  humour,  the  baby,  his  four  new  teeth,  and 
my  grown-up  son  between  us.  We  were  only  ships  that  pass 
hi  the  broad  daylight.  Maybe  some  day  I'll  come  up  against 
a  Dreadnought,  but  it  wasn't  that  day  anyhow." 

Convention  is  death  to  spontaneity.  I  never  repent  any 
action  of  mine  which  has  been  natural,  but  have  many  regrets 
for  lost  opportunities  of  amiable  human  impulse. 

One  year  in  Brighton  a  tall,  interesting,  solitary  woman 
dressed  in  mourning,  accompanied  by  a  white  greyhound 
and  a  blue-tongued  chow,  continually  sat  near  me  on  the 
lawns,  listening  to  the  music.  The  chow  unbent  and  became 
friendly,  and  the  greyhound  treated  me  as  a  relative,  but  the 
sad-eyed  mistress  I  never  got  to  know.  Afterwards  it  came 
to  my  knowledge  that  she  was  an  American  with  a  tragic 
history — then  indeed  I  was  sorry  not  to  have  given  her  an 
unconventional  word  and  shake  of  the  hand. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

THE  MEMBER  FOR  SCOTLAND  DIVISION  AND 
THE  UNCROWNED  KING 

WHEN  the  next  General  Election  occurred,  Mr  Parnell 
decided    that    the   numerous    Irish   in   Scotland 
Division,  Liverpool,  were  entitled  to  their  own 
representation  in  Parliament,  and  T.  P.  was  selected  to  contest 
the  seat.     He  stood  as  well  for  his  old  constituency  in  Galway 
to  ensure  his  membership  in  Parliament,  in  case  the  election 
went  against  him  in  Liverpool. 

Mr  Parnell,  T.  P.  Gill,  T.  P.  O'Connor,  and  myself,  occupied 
one  common  sitting-room — at  least,  I  occupied  it,  as  they 
were  all  busy  and  absent,  organizing  meetings  and  speaking 
at  various  places.  One  day  I  bought  three  bunches  of  violets 
and  presented  each  gentleman  with  a  flower  for  his  button- 
hole. T.  P.  and  Mr  Gill  threw  theirs  aside  when  faded,  but  Mr 
Parnell  paid  me  the  compliment  of  wearing  his  a  week.  He 
had  to  women  the  manner  of  a  man  who  liked  them.  It  was 
quite  different  from  his  manner  to  men,  much  more  kind, 
gracious,  and  solicitous.  They  all  seemed  to  take  the  result 
of  T.  P.'s  election  for  granted,  and  one  evening  at  dinner 
Mr  Gill  asked  Mr  Parnell  whom  he  should  put  up  at  Galway 
in  T.  P.'s  place.  There  was  a  dead  silence  at  the  table,  and 
Mr  Parnell  answered  not  one  word,  but  I  saw  a  sort  of  red 
glint  in  his  eye,  his  mouth  shut  like  a  death  trap,  and  I  said 
to  myself,  "  It  will  be  O'Shea." 

I  lay  no  claim  to  being  a  politician,  and  am  generally  quite 
without  intuition,  but  on  this  occasion  it  came  to  me  force- 
fully, and  when  we  went  upstairs  I  mentioned  my  suspicion 
to  T.  P.,  who  said  it  was  impossible.  Nevertheless,  I  was 
right,  as  subsequent  events  proved. 

aos 


206  I  MYSELF 

What  an  enormous  amount  of  character,  and  courage, 
it  must  take  to  be  asked  a  direct  question,  and  to  answer 
it  by  a  direct  silence.  I  have  only  seen  it  done  on  that  un- 
forgettable occasion,  but  I  have  been  told  Mr  Parnell  never 
hesitated  to  take  this  course  whenever  the  question  was  an 
embarrassing  one. 

The  night  of  the  result  of  the  Election  of  Scotland  Division 
was  declared,  T.  P.  was  hard  at  work  speaking  in  a  doubtful 
district,  so  I  drove  in  the  carriage  with  Mr  Parnell  and  sat 
with  him  on  the  platform.  He  had  given  me  some  violets 
to  wear,  and  added  a  little  bunch  of  shamrock  that  some  one 
had  sent  him  from  Ireland.  The  large  hall  was  packed  with 
a  breathless,  enthusiastic  audience,  and  Mr  Parnell  was  as 
pale  as  death.  Men  kept  coming  and  going  on  the  platform. 
Some  short  speeches  were  made.  A  man  came  in  and  said 
softly  to  Mr  Parnell  that  a  goodly  number  of  votes  had  been 
given  for  T.  P.'s  opponent,  enough  to  cause  anxiety.  There 
was  a  pause — my  heart  was  beating  to  suffocation.  Mr 
Parnell  came  over  and  told  me  not  to  be  anxious.  A  few 
confident  people  applauded  ;  then  hurried  feet  outside,  a 
man  bearing  later  news  and  greatly  excited,  rushed  on  to  the 
platform,  and  whispered  to  Mr  Parnell,  announcing  T.  P.'s 
success.  Mr  Parnell  reared  up  his  head  like  an  emperor, 
got  on  his  feet,  his  face  paler  than  before,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back  so  tightly  they  were  bloodless,  and  stepping 
to  the  front  of  the  platform,  he  announced  that  T.  P.  O'Connor 
had  been  elected  by  fifteen  hundred  majority.  The  vast 
crowd  rose  to  their  feet  and  answered  with  deafening  cheers. 
Women  waved  their  handkerchiefs,  men  shouted  themselves 
hoarse.  My  ready  tears  came.  Never  have  I  witnessed  a 
scene  of  wilder  enthusiasm — the  Irish  had  wrested  a  seat 
from  the  Saxon. 

The  doors  were  closed,  and  then  Mr  Parnell  made  a  speech. 
You  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop,  the  tension  was  so  great — 
and  he  finished  with  these  words  :  "  We  will  knock  at 
England's  door  gently ;  and  if  she  refuses  to  hear,  we  will 
knock  again  more  loudly ;  then  if  she  still  remains  deaf  we 
will  knock  with  a  mailed  hand."  With  this  he  raised  his 


THE  UNCROWNED  KING  207 

hand  as  if  to  strike  a  blow.  The  effect  was  electrical.  If 
he  had  added,  "  We  will  knock  now,"  I  am  sure  the  whole 
of  that  audience  would  have  followed  him  and  gladly  died 
fighting  for  they  knew  not  what,  but  imbued  by  the  despera- 
tion of  his  soul.  That  is  what  made  him  a  great  leader. 
He  inspired  other  men,  even  the  timid,  with  his  flaming 
spirit.  I  never  saw  a  braver  man  than  Mr  Parnell.  And 
Texas  is  a  country  that  breeds  brave  men,  and  I  know 
courage  when  I  see  it.  Alas,  a  time  came  when  his  courage 
availed  him  nothing.  The  history  of  his  downfall  is  one  of 
the  most  pathetic  in  history.  There  is  a  rumour  that 
Captain  O'Shea  said  to  Gambetta,  "  What  are  we  going  to  do 
with  Parnell  ?  He  is  getting  to  be  a  great  danger  in  the 
country."  And  Gambetta  replied,  "  Set  a  woman  on  his 
track."  And  the  woman,  instead  of  betraying  him,  fell  in 
love  with  this  patriot,  and  that  was  his  undoing.  He  was  the 
only  man  who  held  the  Irish  party  together  for  fifteen  years, 
and  he  had  every  quality  to  do  it.  In  the  first  place  he  was 
mysterious,  and  that  appealed  to  the  Irish  imagination. 
He  was  self-contained,  and  before  announcing  them  to  his 
party,  he  made  his  decisions.  He  was  self-reliant  enough  to 
take  all  responsibility  on  his  own  shoulders.  He  could  fight 
for  every  inch  of  ground  with  his  adversary,  guided  by 
unsurpassed  wariness.  A  member  of  Parliament,  with  a 
world- wide  reputation  in  the  early  days  of  Home  Rule,  had  a 
sort  of  promissory  paper  entrusted  to  him  by  Mr  Gladstone, 
merely  to  be  read  to  Mr  Parnell  and  afterwards  it  was  to  be 
returned  to  Mr  Gladstone.  Mr  Parnell,  desiring  to  see  some 
particular  phrase,  held  the  paper  for  a  moment,  then  quietly 
folded  it  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket.  The  member  stretched 
out  his  hand  and  said,  "Oh,  but  I'm  under  a  bond  to  return 
that  to  Mr  Gladstone."  "  No,"  said  Mr  Parnell  very  gently, 
"  oh  no,  it's  safer  in  my  pocket,"  and  in  his  pocket  it  re- 
mained. Mr  Gladstone  was  greatly  disturbed  when  he  heard 
the  result  of  the  interview  and  fiercely  blamed  the  inter- 
mediary, who  said,  "  Well  you  get  it  back — I  can't."  And 
Mr  Parnell  remained  master  of  the  situation  and  possessor 
of  the  document.  He  had  infinite  patience  and  could  always 


208  I  MYSELF 

bide  his  time.  And  he  had  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
Irish  character,  and  the  advantage  himself  of  possessing  some 
of  the  sterner  qualities  of  his  fighting  American  ancestors. 
His  mother's  father,  Admiral  Stewart,  was  known  as  "  Old 
Ironsides,"  and  in  a  way  Mr  Parnell  was  very  American. 
He  could  be  as  silent  and  as  watchful  as  a  Red  Indian.  He 
had  perfect  faith  in  himself ;  he  stood  alone  ;  and  he  had 
the  superabundant  energy  of  the  American,  that  fierce 
energy  that  finally  drove  him  to  his  death.  In  one  fatal 
particular,  however,  he  resembled  his  countrymen.  Every 
Irishman  has  a  henchman  whose  business  it  is  to  report  all 
that  he  hears,  and  to  invent  the  rest.  Mr  Parnell  had  more 
than  one  specimen  of  this  particularly  mischievous  and 
abominable  type  busily  employed  in  constantly  betraying 
his  followers  and  stirring  up  strife  not  only  between  himself 
and  them,  but  between  the  Irish  members  themselves. 
There  is  but  one  thing  in  my  now  somewhat  long  life  of  which 
I  am  thoroughly  proud.  I  have  never  in  the  whole  course  of 
it  repeated  a  disagreeable  thing  that  one  human  being  has 
said  to  me  of  another.  I  have  said  disagreeable,  and  I  dare- 
say even  cruel,  things  myself,  but  always  off  my  own  bat, 
and  never  under  cover  of  some  one  whose  confidence  I  have 
betrayed.  My  strongest  temptation  to  lie  is  to  make  peace, 
for  "  one  doth  not  know  how  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison 
liking."  If  every  one  had  preserved  a  hard  and  fast  rule 
never  to  hear  or  to  repeat  disagreeable  things,  what  a  differ- 
ence it  would  make  in  the  whole  history  of  the  world  !  And 
the  informer  is  always  the  betrayer  afterwards.  This  rule  is 
unalterable.  Mr  ParnelTs  most  dangerous  henchmen  were 
men  of  no  importance,  of  narrow  intellect,  and  of  small  out- 
look, and  yet  they  were  able  to  set  the  ball  rolling  which  was 
eventually  to  temporarily  divide  and  ruin  the  Irish  party 
and  to  delay  Home  Rule  for  a  decade. 

If  I  were  a  great  orator  or  a  great  preacher  I  would  by 
eloquence  and  argument  make  the  world  look  with  horror 
upon  the  creatures  who  stir  up  strife  in  families,  between 
friends,  and — worst  of  all — given  the  opportunity,  between 
nations.  The  futile  argument  advanced  is,  "  You  should 


THE  UNCROWNED  KING  209 

know  your  enemies,"  and  if  you  do,  what  then  ?  You  can 
only  hate  them  back,  and  make  bad  worse.  Whereas,  by 
innocently  treating  an  enemy  as  a  friend  you  may  un- 
expectedly win  him  as  one.  The  truth  is,  the  person  who 
brings  a  disagreeable  story  that  hurts  and  wounds,  dislikes 
you.  The  desire  to  see  you  suffer  proves  that.  Tale-bearers 
are  weak,  and  the  weak  are  rarely  frank — they  have  not 
enough  courage  to  make  their  dislike  manifest.  They  can 
do  it  only  through  other  and  more  subtle  means.  How 
often  sensible  people  are  taken  in  by  the  mischief-maker 
whose  pretence  of  friendship  enables  him  to  give  a  lifelong 
festering  wound. 

Like  all  great  leaders,  Mr  Parnell  was  inordinately  selfish. 
When  he  put  Captain  O'Shea  up  for  T.  P.'s  seat  I  was  visiting 
in  the  North  of  Ireland,  but  I  somehow  felt  he  would  get  T.  P. 
to  go  with  him  to  Galway,  and  that  it  was  asking  far  too  great 
a  sacrifice,  as  T.  P.  had  represented  the  town  and  was  both 
trusted  and  beloved  there.  He  of  all  the  members  should 
not  have  been  asked  by  Mr  Parnell  to  support  O'Shea.  And 
I  wrote  to  T.  P.  imploring  him  not  to  go  to  Galway.  But 
it  was  in  vain,  and  the  fact  that  he  did  go  made  a  grave 
quarrel  between  us,  but  whatever  Mr  Parnell  demanded  of 
his  followers  he  got,  no  matter  how  difficult  the  command. 
He  subordinated  everything  and  every  man  to  himself.  He 
was  without  doubt  the  "  Uncrowned  King,"  but  Galway  was 
his  "  Ides  of  March." 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

THE  BIRTH  OF  "  THE  STAR  " 

I  HAD  gone  to  Ramsgate  to  stay  with  the  Laboucheres, 
and  Mrs  Labouchere  and  I  were  walking  on  the  sands, 
when  she  said  to  me,  "  Bessie,  is  T.  P.  always  going  to 
be  as  poor  as  he  is  now  ?  " 

I  said,  "  I  hope  not.  I  think  he  would  make  a  very  good 
editor,"  and  that  night  we  talked  it  over  with  Mr  Labouchere  ; 
he  agreed  with  me,  and  when  T.  P.  came  down  at  the  end  of 
the  week  the  idea  of  "  The  Star  "  was  born.  A  prominent 
politician  and  a  remarkable  judge  of  men  wrote  to  me  while 
I  was  lately  staying  in  Florence  with  the  Laboucheres,  "  I 
should  love  to  see  Labby  again.  He  and  I  were  always  good 
friends  in  the  House  of  Commons.  He  should  have  been  in 
the  Cabinet.  I  fancy  his  remarkable  sense  of  humour  was  a 
bit  against  him — the  fools  mistake  it  for  insincerity,  whereas 
there  were  few  more  honest  and  sincere  men  than  our  witty 
friend.  When  one  plays  cards  with  a  man,  sits  in  the  House 
of  Commons  with  him,  or  is  in  business  with  him,  he  cannot 
for  long  conceal  his  defects.  Of  course  I  write  only  of  the 
political  game.  No  one  ever  found  Labby  for  one  moment 
false  to  his  professions,  and  his  word  was  implicitly  trusted, 
although  his  jokes  I'm  afraid  did  the  party  little  good.  The 
Nonconformist  is  totally  devoid  of  humour,  but  is,  au  fond, 
a  good  creature  and  must  be  considered." 

Every  one  believed  in  the  judgment  of  Mr  Labouchere  ; 
he  had  a  very  practical  mind,  and  from  the  beginning  he 
predicted  the  success  of  the  paper.  It  was  a  psychological 
moment,  there  was  room  for  it.  He  thought  T.  P.  an 
always- to-be-depended- upon  journalist,  never  dull  in  his 


THE  BIRTH  OF  "THE  STAR"  211 

writing,  continually  interesting,  and  indeed  with  a  touch 
of  genius. 

Mr  Labouchere  was  very  encouraging,  helpful  and  active 
in  getting  the  capital  together,  and  T.  P.,  full  of  blithe 
energy,  worked  night  and  day,  seeing  capitalists,  politicians, 
artists  who  brought  advertising  designs — the  man  with 
torch  aloft  was  his  own  idea — engaging  his  staff.  Mr 
Massingham,  that  brilliant  journalist,  was  his  chief  leader- 
writer,  Ernest  Parke  was  the  sub-editor,  George  Bernard  Shaw 
was  the  Musical  Critic — and  many  other  men,  then  unknown, 
but  now  famous  in  the  world  of  journalism,  were  contributors. 

But  even  after  some  of  the  machinery  was  bought  there 
was  a  moment  of  fear  that  the  whole  plan  of  "  The  Star  " 
would  miscarry.  Mr  Carnegie  offered  to  provide  Lord 
Morley  with  sufficient  capital  to  start  an  evening  paper  in 
support  of  the  Liberals.  "  The  Star  "  was  to  be  a  Radical 
paper.  I  was  staying  in  Brighton,  to  be  near  the  Laboucheres, 
who  were  at  Lyon  Mansion.  T.  P.  came  down  from  London 
much  depressed,  and  said  as  Home  Rule  was  to  come  to 
Ireland  through  the  Liberals,  and  John  Morley  with  an 
evening  paper  could  be  of  such  service  to  the  party,  he 
thought  he  had  better  drop  "  The  Star."  I  simply  raged. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  I  said,  "  you  can't  do  it.  Here  you  are 
compromised  to  all  your  staff — I  never  heard  of  such  a  quixotic 
idea  in  my  life — of  course  you  must  go  on  with  the  paper." 

He  said,  "  Don't  say  anything  about  this  to  anybody." 

I  looked  at  the  clock.  "  In  fifteen  minutes,"  I  said, 
"  Mr  Labouchere  shall  know  all  about  it."  And  off  I  rushed 
to  Lyon  Mansion  to  find  him  a  mine  of  strength  and  support ; 
he  helped  to  write  a  wire  to  Mr  Morley  for  T.  P.  to  sign,  who 
soon  made  his  appearance,  and  with  my  bullying  and  Mr 
Labouchere's  logic  a  boy  was  sent  off  with  the  telegram. 
I  followed  him  in  the  hall  and  gave  him  a  shilling  to  run. 

Mr  Morley  abandoned  the  idea  of  his  paper,  and  "  The 
Star "  went  triumphantly  on  its  way.  So  great  was 
T.  P.'s,  enthusiasm  that  he  said  he  must  be  on  the  premises 
both  day  and  night.  He  could  not  edit  the  paper  otherwise. 
So  a  flat  was  built  for  us  at  the  top  of  "  The  Star  "  building. 


212  I  MYSELF 

He  also,  to  lessen  the  time  given  to  dressing  in  the  morning, 
designed  a  time -saving  costume.  It  was  to  be  a  flannel- 
lined  coat  buttoned  to  the  chin,  the  trousers  also  flannel- 
lined  and  with  socks  and  slippers ;  he  calculated  not  more 
than  two  minutes  for  clothing  himself.  My  suggestion  was 
to  do  away  with  socks  and  trousers,  and  in  their  stead  flannel- 
lined  top-boots  reaching  well  up  over  the  knee,  and  a  very 
long,  braided  sort  of  garberdine,  thus  reducing  his  dressing 
to  half  a  minute.  He  said  I  always  threw  cold  water  on  all 
his  valuable  ideas,  and  neither  of  the  costumes  after  this 
was  adopted. 

Finally,  the  first  day  arrived  for  the  publication  of  the 
paper.  I  went  down  rather  early.  The  machines  were 
going,  nice  new  carts  standing  outside,  newsboys  were 
waiting  in  groups.  T.  P.  was  in  his  editorial  room,  proof 
was  going  up  and  down  the  stairs,  and  finally  a  batch  of 
papers  were  ready,  and  the  first  newsboy  found  his  voice  and 
called  out  "  Star,  Evening  Star  "  and  rushed  down  the  street 
followed  by  other  boys  shouting  and  waving  the  new  paper. 
A  lump  came  in  my  throat,  and  I  ran  upstairs  to  congratulate 
T.  P. 

Before  night  the  success  of  the  paper  was  ensured.  I 
drove  to  Grosvenor  Gardens  to  dine  with  the  Laboucheres 
and  tell  them  all  about  it.  Mr  Labouchere  had  advised  about 
the  contract,  which  practically  made  T.  P.  a  life  editor,  and 
at  last  I  thought  that  with  his  splendid  talent  he  had  come 
into  his  own.  What  a  happy,  happy  night  it  was,  in  spite 
of  the  prospect  of,  like  poor  Jo,  my  moving  on  again. 

Although  I  had  not  been  long  in  my  little  house  on  the 
embankment,  it  was  a  grief  to  leave  it.  The  river  was  full  of 
interest  and  charm  to  me,  and  it  was  my  first  home,  after 
being  so  many  years  without  one.  But  I  moved  to  "  The 
Star  "  the  day  after  the  paper  started.  And  really  the 
next  two  years  could  not  have  been  more  uncomfortable. 
The  building  was  not  very  solidly  built,  and  the  machinery 
shook  it  like  an  aspen  leaf.  The  hangings,  curtains  and  all 
my  clothes  reeked  of  printers'  ink,  the  noise  of  the  carts 
coming  and  going,  the  call  of  the  drivers,  the  quarrelling  of 


THE  BIRTH  OF  "THE  STAR"  213 

newsboys,  and  the  incessant  grinding  of  machinery,  made  a 
perfect  pandemonium  of  noise.  A  huge  market  was  just 
opposite,  and  the  odour  of  stale  food  was  continually  coming 
in  at  the  windows.  The  one  delightful  thing  about  it  was  an 
excellent  bathroom  with  a  generous  tub  and  a  fine  shower- 
bath,  which  had  been  put  in  expressly  for  T.  P.  Before  we 
left  Grosvenor  Road  he  had  been  speaking  somewhere  in  the 
country,  and  at  the  house  of  his  host  had  taken  a  cold  shower- 
bath.  When  he  came  home  he  said  at  last  he  had  found  the 
thing  that  would  cure  his  every  ill — a  shower-bath — and  he 
wanted  one  put  in  at  once  in  Grosvenor  Road.  I  demurred 
to  the  expense,  and  also  suggested  that  he  sometimes 
changed  his  mind — perhaps  after  he  got  the  shower-bath  he 
wouldn't  like  it.  He  said  he  never  changed  his  mind — never  ; 
that  I  always  discouraged  him  in  every  effort  he  made  to 
regain  his  health  (what  a  splendid  robust  invalid  he  was !) ; 
that  evidently  I  didn't  care  for  a  shower-bath  myself,  and 
that  was  the  reason  I  didn't  want  it.  So  when  the  architect 
who  was  designing  "  The  Star  "  flat  came  to  me  with  the 
plans,  I  at  once  put  my  finger  on  the  bathroom  and  said, 
"  Whatever  you  can  or  cannot  do  in  this  flat,  give  us  a 
vigorous  shower-bath — the  largest  one  manufactured." 

One  morning  about  nine  o'clock  I  asked  the  maid  where 
Mr  O'Connor  was.  She  said  in  his  bedroom,  in  bed — that 
he  was  suffering  from  a  chill.  When  I  went  in,  he  was 
wrapped  in  blankets  and  had  a  hot-water  bottle  clasped  in 
his  arms.  The  chill  was  the  result  of  the  shower-bath, 
without  which  only  a  short  time  before  he  could  not  exist. 
He  said  there  was  something  the  matter  with  his  circulation 
for  the  moment,  but  he  would  be  better  in  a  day  or  so. 
Twice  after  he  tried  the  shower-bath,  with  the  same  result, 
and  then  it  was  left  to  my  undisturbed  possession.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  world  I  like  better.  That  cold,  invigorating 
spray  kept  me  alive  during  those  two  trying  years  spent  in 
Stonecutter  Street. 

One  night  in  particular  I  remember.  T.  P.  was  speaking  in 
Scotland,  where  I  was  to  join  him  the  next  day,  and  I  was 
alone  on  my  floor,  the  servants  all  up  above,  when,  about 


2i4  I  MYSELF 

half-past  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  felt  the 
quiver  and  grind  of  machinery.  I  looked  at  my  clock,  and 
was  petrified  with  terror.  It  was  an  evening  paper — the 
machines  never  began  before  the  morning — what  could  have 
happened  ?  Had  the  Queen  died  ?  I  jumped  out  of  bed, 
threw  on  my  dressing-gown,  and  ran  barefooted  into  the  hall. 

The  night-watchman  met  me,  his  lantern  swinging  in  his 
hand,  followed  by  Max. 

"  What,  oh,  what  has  happened  ?  "   I  gasped  out. 

"  Jack  the  Ripper,"  he  said,  "  has  murdered  two  women 
to-night — not  so  far  away  from  here  either — and  we  are 
getting  to  press  as  early  as  anybody." 

"  Two  !  "  I  said.    "  Horrible  !    How  did  he  manage  that  ?  " 

He  told  me  as  much  as  he  knew,  and  I  took  Max  in  my 
room  to  guard  me,  and  waited  for  the  daylight. 

What  an  impenetrable  mystery  Jack  the  Ripper  was  ! 
The  wretch  evidently  had  a  sardonic  sense  of  humour,  for 
he  used  to  write  to  the  papers  to  say  a  murder  would 
be  committed  the  next  night,  and  sign  his  letters  "  The 
Ripper " — and  sure  enough  the  murder,  in  spite  of  all 
vigilance,  would  take  place  neatly  and  deftly  ;  and,  notwith- 
standing his  grimly  humorous  letter  of  warning,  no  trace 
would  be  found.  All  sorts  of  theories  were  advanced,  but 
there  was  absolutely  nothing  in  any  of  them. 

One  night  Mr  Parnell  came  to  see  Mr  Labouchere.  He 
was  wearing  a  long  rough  overcoat  with  the  collar  well  above 
his  ears,  a  slouch  hat  well  down  over  his  eyes,  and  he  carried 
a  black  bag  just  the  size  for  instruments.  Mr  Labouchere 
accompanied  him  to  the  door  and  said,  "  Shall  I  call  a  cab 
for  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  Mr  Parnell  said,  "  I  will  walk." 

"  Where,"  said  Mr  Labouchere,  "  do  you  live  ?  " 

"  Over  there,"  said  Mr  Parnell,  sweeping  his  arm  toward 
the  darkness  of  the  night  into  which  he  disappeared. 

Mr  Labouchere  returned  to  his  library  and  a  group  of 
friends,  and  laughing,  said,  "  I  do  believe  that  I've  just 
parted  with  '  Jack  the  Ripper  ' — anyhow  Parnell  is  the  only 
man  who  answers  to  the  description." 


CHAPTER   XL 

MY  FIRE-ESCAPE  FLIGHT.     BRILLIANT  LETTERS 
FROM  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

THE  authorities  looking  over  "  The  Star  "  building  said 
it  was  particularly  unsafe  in  time  of  fire — that  in  fif- 
teen minutes  the  building  would  be  demolished  ;  and 
they  ordered  a  fire-escape  to  be  made,  one  of  those  long  canvas 
bags  which  are  hooked  on  to  iron  loops  and  swung  down 
into  the  yard  below.  You  are  supposed  to  get  in  it  and  put 
your  arms  akimbo,  and  stretch  your  legs  wide  apart,  thus 
filling  up  the  bag  and  keeping  yourself  from  going  down  with 
too  great  a  velocity.  It  is  a  sort  of  calisthenic  performance, 
requiring  a  good  deal  of  practice,  and  you  begin  with  one 
storey  only.  Another  thing  breaking  the  direct  downward 
drop  are  the  two  men  who,  in  the  yard  or  street  below,  hold 
the  bag  out,  so  that  it  makes  a  slanting  line. 

Two  firemen  and  the  bag  arrived  one  spring  evening  about 
six  o'clock.  I  was  to  dine  out  and  go  on  to  a  party  afterwards. 
The  iron  loops  were  screwed  in  and  firmly  adjusted  in  my 
bedroom  window,  which  was  on  the  fourth  story ;  the  bag 
was  fixed  on  to  the  loops,  and  hung  down  to  the  square  court 
below.  The  firemen,  both  of  whom  had  been  drinking  and 
probably  wanting  a  lark,  urged  me  to  go  down  in  it.  I 
hesitated,  and  sat  in  the  window  for  some  moments  (any 
height  makes  me  rather  sick)  with  my  legs  dangling  down 
in  the  bag.  They  said,  "  You  had  better  slide  down  now, 
and  in  case  of  fire  you  can  give  Mr  O'Connor  and  the  servants 
confidence  by  going  down  ahead  of  them." 

I  felt  very  frightened  and  nauseated,  but  I  said,  "  All 
right,  go  down  and  take  hold  of  the  bag  " — and  after  I  had 

215 


216  I  MYSELF 

dangled  a  little  while  longer  I  suddenly  let  go,  and  down  I 
went.  But  no  arms  akimbo,  and  no  legs  braced  against  the 
canvas  !  Oh  no — I  just  put  my  arms  up  above  my  head  in 
the  frantic  hope  of  grabbing  something — anything  that  would 
stay  my  instant  death,  for  that  is  what  it  felt  like. 

However,  the  agony  did  not  last  long.  Down  I  went  like 
an  arrow  shot  from  a  bow,  my  skirts  up  about  my  head  like 
an  umbrella  turned  the  wrong  side  out.  I  shot  by  the  men 
like  a  catapult  from  a  gun,  and  slid  along  the  stones  in  the 
yard  as  if  they  had  been  greased,  leaving  large  patches  of 
skin  on  each  one  that  I  touched.  My  right  foot  turned, 
spraining  the  ankle,  every  hairpin  was  out  of  my  head,  my 
hair  hung  down  like  Meg  Merrilees',  my  elbows  had  come 
through  my  sleeves  and  my  arms  were  skinned,  but  I  was 
to  my  great  surprise  alive.  Every  window  in  the  court  was 
filled  with  a  laughing,  cheering  crowd. 

The  firemen,  quite  sobered  with  fright,  picked  me  up,  and 
smoothed  my  ruffled  feathers,  and  then  I  found  I  couldn't 
walk.  My  ankle  began  to  swell  at  once.  I  was  carried 
upstairs.  I  called  for  a  soft  cushion  to  sit  on  ;  Mr  Parke  came 
up  and  cut  off  my  boot ;  and  we  dispatched  a  telegram  to 
my  hostess  and  my  doctor. 

T.  P.  was  out.  When  he  came  in  he  could  not  believe 
that  I  had  done  anything  so  utterly  foolhardy,  so  absurd, 
and  apparently  so  courageous.  And  the  unfortunate  part 
was  that  everybody  who  had  seen  the  descent  resolved  there 
and  then  to  burn  up  alive  rather  than  go  down  in  a  fire-escape. 

We  had  a  lunch  party  when  I  had  sufficiently  recovered, 
and  I  remember  Tim  Healy,  such  a  gay,  agreeable,  and  witty 
friend  in  those  far-off  days,  looking  out  of  the  window  and 
down  the  fire-escape,  and  saying  he  wouldn't  for  four  thousand 
pounds  have  taken  that  hasty  journey.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  was  most  horribly  afraid  to  do  it,  but  I  thought  it  my  duty 
to  be  prepared  for  fire,  and  above  all  to  set  the  servants  an 
example  with  the  fire-escape  ;  but  the  moments  of  agony 
I  spent  in  the  awful  thing  have  developed  in  me  an  ever- 
lasting sympathy  for  the  criminal.  On  that  occasion  I 
suffered  all  the  pain  of  execution. 


LETTERS  FROM  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW  217 

One  night  we  went  to  Spencer  House,  to  an  "  At  Home," 
and  on  our  return  to  Stonecutter  Street,  when  T.  P.  gave 
the  cabman  his  fare,  he  got  a  very  frank  lecture  on  the 
enormity  of  his  ways. 

"  If,"  said  the  man,  "  I  knew  your  families,  I  would  tell 
them  who  you  are,  bringing  me  down  here  to  a  newspaper 
office  at  this  time  of  night,  and  giving  me  half-a-crown  to  do 
it.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves." 

We  did  not  explain  that  we  were  married  and  this  was  our 
singular  home. 

Climbing  up  and  down  the  four  flights  of  stairs  was  very 
tiresome,  and  another  disadvantage  was  the  number  of  things 
that  were  stolen  while  we  lived  there.  One  thing  I  shall 
ever  regret,  a  genuine  treasure  that  I  had  always  refused 
to  sell,  even  in  my  poorest  days :  a  very  beautiful  authentic 
miniature  of  the  Pompadour  with  powdered  hair,  dressed 
with  a  little  wreath  of  roses,  a  white  pointed  bodice,  and 
gossamer  lace  falling  about  the  square  neck.  It  was  painted 
in  the  heyday  of  her  beauty,  and  the  face  and  shoulders  were 
exquisite.  It  disappeared  one  day.  With  so  many  people 
running  in  and  out  of  the  flat,  to  trace  it  was  impossible. 
Newspaper  offices  and  theatres  are  alike — things  just  go. 

The  musical  criticisms  of  George  Bernard  Shaw  were 
among  the  great  successes  of  the  paper.  They  were  bril- 
liantly written,  full  of  humour,  and  always  amusing  and 
original — not  entirely  about  music,  for  he  gave  himself  great 
latitude,  and  this  was  his  charm :  the  unexpected  always, 
even  as  in  his  plays  of  the  present  day.  I  delighted  in  every 
line  that  he  wrote,  and  in  him  personally.  He  was  so  witty, 
gay,  and  undaunted.  He  was  very  poor,  and  revelled  in  his 
poverty  as  a  huge  joke.  That  is  why  Fate  has  made  him 
rich.  He  really  didn't  care  a  pin  about  money.  The 
simplicity  of  his  life  called  for  nothing  more  than  the  most 
moderate  stipend.  He  was  the  strictest  vegetarian.  He 
wore  flannel  shirts,  and  the  most  inexpensive  clothes ;  was 
active  and  walked  great  distances,  spending  nothing  in  cab 
fares ;  his  only  beverage  was  water — and  he  was  perfectly 
happy,  living  partly  in  his  land  of  dreams,  and  partly  in  the 


2i8  I  MYSELF 

world,  where  nothing  escaped  his  sharp  eye — the  follies  and 
the  motives  of  mortals  were  quite  open  to  his  penetrating 
vision.  Many  people,  chiefly  unobservant  ones,  argue  that 
George  Bernard  Shaw's  theoretical  creations  spring  from  his 
brain,  like  Minerva  from  the  head  of  Jupiter,  and  possess  no 
attributes  of  human  men  and  women,  but  I  daresay  if  the 
truth  were  known,  he  has  drawn  them  chiefly  from  his  own 
intimates. 

There  was  never  a  more  natural  play  than  "  Man  and 
Superman  "or  a  more  natural  woman  than  its  heroine  Ann  ; 
and  the  female  of  the  present  day  is  continually  stalking  the 
male  all  over  the  world.  It  is  a  reversal  of  nature,  but  then 
through  so-called  civilization  we  are  tending  more  toward 
artificiality  every  day,  and  it  is  a  long  time  since  Eve  offered 
Adam  the  apple  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  and  then  felt 
ashamed  of  herself.  The  only  question  now  among  a  certain 
class  of  women  is,  "  Will  he  eat,  and  how  soon  ?  "  Many 
women,  especially  the  hypocritical,  and  those  who  have 
played  Ann's  game,  resent  the  creation  ;  but  we  all  know  her. 
There  are  Anns  belonging  to  every  nationality  ;  they  are 
found  in  America,  France,  Germany,  England — and  I 
daresay  in  Asia  Minor. 

Some  years  ago  I  met  G.  B.  S.,  travelling  with  a  party 
of  artists  on  the  Lake  of  Como.  I  asked  to  be  introduced  to 
one  of  them,  saying,  I  was  so  much  interested  in  his  pictures. 

"  Not  you,"  said  Mr  Shaw,  his  eyes  dancing  with  fun. 
"  He's  a  mighty  good-looking  fellow,  that's  why  you  want 
to  know  him — you  neither  know  nor  care  anything  about  his 
pictures." 

I  laughed  and  instantly  forgave  him — he  was  so  near  the 
truth.  I  love  beauty  above  everything  in  nature,  in  art,  in 
man,  or  tree,  or  flower,  or  child,  and  the  satisfaction  of  my 
eye  is  my  chiefest  pleasure. 

The  boat  stopped  at  Como  just  then,  so  I  never  made  the 
gentleman's  acquaintance,  but  it  really  is  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  ever  trying  to  deceive  Mr  Shaw.  By  a  quick 
mental  process  he  divines  the  truth  at  once.  Indeed  a  great 
part  of  his  wit  lies  in  presenting  the  facts  of  life  (in  his  own 


LETTERS  FROM  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW  219 

inimitable  style)  just  as  they  are.  Unabashed  and  unafraid, 
he  exposes  truth,  no  matter  how  ugly  she  may  appear  to  be, 
and  tears  from  her  face  the  falsehood  with  which  we  have 
been  veiling  it  for  generations.  He  knows,  nobody  better, 
that  in  truth  lies  freedom,  and  he  is  working  steadily  toward 
that  goal,  and  at  the  same  time  adding  to  the  gaiety  of 
nations,  for,  thank  Heaven !  his  most  serious  efforts  are 
seasoned  with  the  biting  sauce  of  inexhaustible  humour. 

These  letters,  received  so  long  ago  in  "  The  Star  "  days,  I 
kept  for  their  frank  and  delightful  wit.  They  are  as  amusing 
to-day  as  when  they  were  written. 

"  29  FITZROY  SQUARE, 
•Lfih  May,  1888. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — Decidedly  the  American  woman 
is  the  woman  of  the  future,  but  how  the  American  woman 
contrives  to  get  on  with  the  Irishman  of  the  present,  without 
driving  him  out  of  his  senses  by  franknesses  which  strike  me 
as  appalling  indiscretion,  was  the  second  thought  which 
occurred  to  me  when  I  met  you  at  '  The  Star '  sanctum,  the 
first  thought  being,  of  course,  the  realization  of  the  American 
woman  herself  personally.  It  is  the  Irishman's  charm  and 
defect  that  he  never  loses  his  naivete  as  to  woman,  he  never 
ventures  to  think  that  she  is  human  ;  and  consequently  he  is 
eternally  chivalrous,  which  is  convenient  at  times,  but  which 
on  the  whole  makes  him  desperately  conventional  on  the 
woman  question,  and  inclined  to  think  that  her  place,  after  she 
has  seen  to  his  dinner  and  his  buttons,  is  a  glass  case,  and  her 
chief  duty  to  hold  her  tongue.  I  cannot  help  intrusively 
surmising  that  the  unfortunate  T.  P.  is  having  the  remnants 
of  this  superstition  ruthlessly  extirpated  by  the  aforesaid 
American  woman  of  the  future.  I  am  enviously  sorry  for 
him. 

"  I  admit  that  it  was  a  fall  for  Trefusis  when  he  married 
Agatha,  but  it  was  inevitable.  They  were  one  another's 
natural  prey  from  the  first,  and  when  two  people  find  that 
out  it  ends  always  in  the  same  way  in  spite  of  reason,  unless 
one  or  other  or  both  is  '  Bespoke  '  before  the  meeting  occurs. 


220  I  MYSELF 

"As  to  the  vegetarian  meal,  I  positively  refuse.  I  have 
had  considerable  experience  of  the  danger  of  associating 
myself  with  experiments  of  that  kind.  When  the  victim  is 
a  man  he  forgives  me  after  a  time,  but  women  are  not  so 
magnanimous ;  besides,  your  suggestion — the  most  extra- 
ordinary ever  made  by  woman — that  the  reformed  diet  might 
have  the  effect  of  assimilating  your  personal  appearance  to 
mine,  chills  me  to  the  soul.  Imagine  your  becoming  fair, 
not  to  say  green  !  No,  thank  you  !  If  all  the  women  were 
made  fair  to-morrow  I  should  retire  to  a  monastery  the  day 
after.  The  fact  is  these  bean-pies  and  so  on  are  not  the 
proper  things  to  eat,  though  they  are  better  than  cow.  The 
correct  thing  is  good  bread  and  good  fruit  and  nothing  else. 
At  present  it  is  impossible  to  get  either  except  at  odd  times. 

"  It  is  superfluous  to  recommend  M.'s  '  Confessions '  to  me ; 
I  have  heard  them  from  his  own  lips.  I  doubt  if  there  is  any 
other  such  man  in  the  world  as  he.  I  cannot  describe  him  ; 
he  would  baffle  even  T.  P.'s  descriptive  talent,  and  I  accept 
your  phrase  as  the  final  felicity  of  criticism  on  him. 

"  My  book- writing  days  are  over,  unluckily  ;  for  the  last 
five  years  I  have  had  to  live  and  lecture  at  my  own  expense, 
and  I  should  not  know  how  to  write  a  novel  now  if  I  wanted 
to.  At  the  present  moment,  by  the  by,  I  should  be  writing 
notes  for  the  mossy-headed  Massingham.  How  I  should 
like  to  get  hold  of  that  paper  just  for  a  fortnight ! 

"G.  B.  S. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  have  such  a  habit  of  signing  that 
way,  that  I  forget  and  do  it  when  better  manners  are  needed. 
Pray  excuse  it." 

"  29  FITZROY  SQUARE,  W., 
i6th  September,  1888. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  take  it  that  you  are  back  from 
Kreuznach  by  this  time.  I  too  am  back — from  Bath — upon 
which  expedition  (I  was  three  hours  and  a  half  there)  I  spent 
a  fortnight's  hard  work  and  a  pound  in  present  cash,  only 
to  be  maligned  and  misrepresented  in  '  The  Star  '  and  to 


LETTERS  FROM  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW  221 

return  in  a  state  of  destitution  with  my  Italian  Exhibition 
project  faded  into  an  impossible  dream.  No,  madam. 
Share  the  splendour  of  West  Kensington  with  the  giddy 
Massingham  if  you  will,  and  leave  to  sterner,  grimmer  uses 
the  slave  of  the  world's  destiny  and  of  his  own  genius. 

"  I  walked  home  from  my  lecture  at  Dalston  last  night  to 
save  a  tram  fare — think  of  that  and  blush  !  Probably  I 
shall  walk  home  from  the  New  Cut  to-night  for  the  same 
reason.  Last  month  I  earned  £6,  125.  The  month's  rent 
is  £5.  I  have  another  paper  to  prepare  for  October  5th, 
equal  in  difficulty  to  the  Bath  one,  and  equally  paid  in  the 
gratitude  of  posterity.  I  have  two  books  commissioned, 
payment  by  royalty  after  they  are  published — and  you  talk 
of  the  Italian  Exhibition  !  Ha,  ha  !  Do  you  know  what  the 
Italian  Exhibition  costs  ?  Our  tickets,  third  class,  including 
admission,  half-a-crown  if  they  would  cost  a  penny.  One 
programme  between  us,  a  penny.  The  Blue  Grotto,  three- 
pence (for  you — I  should  wait  outside  as  I  have  seen  the 
imposture  already)  ;  sixpenny  seats  at  the  Coliseum — one 
shilling  ;  threepenny  seats  at  the  Mandolinists — sixpence  ; 
shilling  seats  at  the  Marionettes — two  shillings  ;  Switchback 
Railway,  one  turn — sixpence.  Refreshments,  say  fourpence, 
as  we  could  be  scrupulously  economical.  Loss  of  time, 
reckoned  at  '  Star  '  rates  of  payment — half-a-crown  apiece. 
Total,  twelve  shillings  and  twopence  !  So  that  even  if  I 
borrowed  ten  shillings  from  you  to  start  with  (which  an  Army 
Reserve  man  in  the  S.  D.  Federation  tells  me  is  the  cheapest 
plan  of  managing  an  affair  of  this  sort)  I  should  still  be  two 
shillings  and  twopence  out  of  pocket.  Two  shillings  and 
twopence  to  gratify  the  whim  of  a  giddy  young  woman  who 
proposes  (monstrous  conceit)  to  take  my  education  in  hand  ! 
My  education  !  You  a  baby,  still  looking  with  wide-open, 
delighted  eyes  at  the  glitter  of  West  European  whitewash 
and  advising  maids,  wives,  and  widows  with  the  artless 
wisdom  of  an  incomparable  and  unique  naivete — educate 
me  \  Stupendous  project  !  No,  I  learn  from  everybody, 
and  what  I  learn  I  teach,  but  I  am  nobody's  pupil,  though  I 
should  be  glad  indeed  to  meet  my  master.  You  will  find 


222  I  MYSELF 

very  few  people  in  London  who  know  anything,  but  those 
who  do  have  learnt  it  all  from  me  !  All  of  which  is  as  much 
as  to  say  that  for  the  present  I  am  tied,  neck  and  heels, 
to  stump  and  inkpot,  and  mustn't  introduce  the  statue  to  its 
original  yet  awhile. 

"  Meanwhile,  I  hope  you  are  well,  as  this  leaves  me  at 
present — thank  God  !  (if  there  were  one)  for  it.  This  is  the 
Irish  formula,  and  faultless  in  its  way. 

"  I  judge  by  a  fervour  in  the  leading  article  that  the 
editor  of  '  The  Star  '  is  again  at  his  post.  Convey  to  him 
such  kind  regards  as  can  pass  between  two  hardened 
worldlings. 

"  Of  the  enclosed 1  I  very  grievously  suspect  Master  Tighe 
Hopkins — but  you  began  it. 

"  G.  B.  S." 

1  "  The  enclosed  "  was  a  brilliant  article  by  Tighe  Hopkins,  suggested  by 
a  paragraph  in  '  For  Maids,  Wives,  and  Widows '  my  weekly  column  in 
'  The  Star.'  " 


CHAPTER  XLI 

A  "  STAR "  PARTY.  THE  SHIRT  OF  CHARLES  I., 
AND  NORWAY 

WHEN  I  returned  from  Scotland  to  " The  Star"  build- 
ing— it  never  could  be  called  home — I  met  Adele 
Steiner  in  Edinburgh  and  brought  her  back  with 
me  as  a  consolation.     She  was  a  very  pretty,  thoughtful, 
intellectual,  charming  girl  from  Texas,  who  had  been  spend- 
ing a  year  or  two  abroad  in  foreign  travel,  and  her  stay 
with  me  was  a  delight.     She  is  now  the  wife  of  the  Hon. 
Albert  Burleson,  the  able  leader  in  Congress  of  the  able 
democratic  party  from  Texas,  and  her  thoughtfulness  and 
tact  have  been  of  inestimable  service  to  her  husband. 

We  were  soon  busy  preparing  for  a  reception  in  "  The  Star  " 
building.  The  editorial  department  was  furbished  up  as  a 
series  of  dressing-rooms,  and  as  all  the  rooms  in  the  flat 
opened  into  each  other  and  some  of  them  had  folding-doors, 
it  was  easy  to  make  sufficient  space  to  accommodate  many 
guests.  Various  friends  with  country  places  sent  big 
baskets  of  flowers  and  foliage.  Lady  Ripon  from  Studley 
Royal  was  particularly  generous,  and  Lady  Milbanke  sent 
from  Yorkshire  not  only  flowers  enough  to  decorate  the 
entire  dining-room,  but  a  special  bunch  of  pink  and  white 
carnations — my  favourite  flower — for  my  own  personal 
decoration. 

The  four  flights  of  stairs  were  covered  in  red  felt.  An 
awning  was  provided  for  the  door,  and  we  looked  very  gay 
and  festive  on  the  night  of  the  party.  The  various  papers 
were  kind  in  their  mention  of  it,  but  I  have  only  this  extract 
left  :— 

aaj 


224  I  MYSELF 

"  Mrs  T.  P.  O'Connor,  a  charming  American,  was  '  At 
Home  '  on  Wednesday  evening  at  '  The  Star '  Office,  an 
immense  building  which  also  serves  Mr  and  Mrs  O'Connor 
as  a  residence. 

"  It  was  a  novel  experience,  I  should  imagine,  to  nineteen 
out  of  every  twenty  guests  to  be  sumptuously  entertained 
in  a  newspaper  office,  and  for  myself,  I  never  remember 
anything  like  it  except  the  great  party  given  to  inaugurate 
the  new  '  Daily  Telegraph  '  buildings  six  or  seven  years 
ago. 

"  Luckily  '  The  Star ' '  At  Home  '  was  on  that  evening  of  the 
week  when  most  of  us  can  manage  to  steal  a  few  hours  of  the 
night  without  going  into  sackcloth  and  ashes  next  morning, 
and  the  result  was  that  some  500  accepted  Mrs  O'Connor's 
invitation.  The  '  At  Home  '  was  a  kind  of  christening  of 
the  Radical  paper,  which  in  five  months  has  obtained  a 
circulation  unprecedented  in  the  history  of  journalism  in 
England.  Everybody  was  there,  Politicians,  Artists,  Actors 
and  Actresses,  Professional  Beauties,  pretty  young  ladies 
just  coming  out,  and  a  large  sprinkling  of  Society  celebrities, 
and  what  is  more,  everybody  enjoyed  himself  or  herself. 

"  Clever  Mrs  O'Connor  had  turned  the  rooms  in  which  she 
and  her  husband  live,  above  the  working  part  of  the  paper, 
into  a  perfect  fairyland,  ablaze  with  lights  and  flowers. 
There  was  Irish  hospitality  and  some  excellent  Washington 
punch,  and  the  result  was  that  all  went  merry  as  marriage 
bells. 

"  Towards  the  middle  of  the  evening  there  was  a  diversion 
in  the  shape  of  the  printing  of  the  last  edition  of  the  paper, 
the  ladies  going  down  to  the  machine-room  and  setting  the 
Marinoni  and  Fosters  going  with  their  own  fair  hands. 

"  There  was  Mr  Gladstone  talking  to  Mr  John  Morley. 
Mr  Beerbohm  Tree  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  admirers.  Oscar 
Wilde  and  his  pretty  young  wife.  Sir  Charles  Russell. 
And  representing  the  Opposition  Bench  were  Sir  Lyon  Play- 
fair  and  Mr  James  Stansfeld,  and  I  noticed  Mr  G.  B.  Shaw 
and  Lord  Ashburnham,  Sir  Frederick  and  Lady  Milbanke, 
and  Mrs  Labouchere  in  white  satin,  old  lace,  and  a  parure  of 


A  "STAR  "PARTY  225 

diamonds,  had  a  smile  and  a  cheery  word  for  every  one  of  her 
numerous  friends. 

"A  great  many  people  who  had  dropped  in  for  a  few  minutes 
only  and  intended  to  hie  them  away  to  other  functions, 
changed  their  mind  when  they  found  what  good  entertain- 
ment was  in  store  for  them  and  stayed  at  "  The  Star  "  Office. 

"  The  party  was  altogether  a  brilliant  success." 

M.  Johannes  Wolff  played  divinely  at  "  The  Star  "  party. 
He  could  not  speak  a  word  of  English  at  that  time,  and  I 
offered  jestingly  to  give  him  lessons.  He  took  it  seriously 
and  arrived  the  next  day  with  grammar,  dictionary,  and  a 
little  book  of  stories.  I  gave  him  one  lesson,  Adele  Steiner 
gave  him  the  next,  and  T.  P.  gave  him  two.  This  was  his 
entire  course  in  English,  though  now  he  speaks  the  language 
very  well.  The  lessons  were  interrupted  by  a  short  visit  to 
Lord  Ashburnham's  and  never  resumed.  Ashburnham 
Place  is  one  of  the  lovely  spots  of  England.  The  house  is 
old,  and  the  garden  is  sheltered  and  has  a  great  variety  of 
trees  and  shrubs  brought  from  milder  climates  and  thriving 
well  in  the  soil,  which  all  about  Hastings  is  more  or  less 
productive.  The  white  grapes  are  magnificent,  and  there 
is  okra  also  growing  under  glass,  a  very  delicious  vegetable 
brought  from  Egypt,  and,  like  the  pomegranate,  Cleopatra 
ate  of  it,  for  okra  is  a  historic  vegetable  and  was,  I  have  no 
doubt,  a  favourite  with  the  Ptolemies.  It  is  the  principal 
ingredient  of  gumbo,  the  famous  dish  of  New  Orleans. 

There  was  no  house  party,  only  Adele  and  I,  Lord  Ash- 
burnham and,  later  on,  T.  P.  The  first  evening  of  our 
arrival  Adele  came  down  to  dinner  looking  like  a  very  youth- 
ful Marquise.  She  was  dressed  in  pink  satin  brocaded  in 
silver  lilies,  with  her  hair  powdered  and  bound  by  a  silver 
ribbon.  I  said,  "  Why  all  this  magnificence  ?  "  And  she 
bowed  toward  Lord  Ashburnham  and  answered,  "  In  honour 
of  the  distinguished  host  and  the  distinguished  house." 

He  looked  very  pleased — it  was  a  pretty  compliment,  and 
we  three  spent  such  a  gay  evening  together.  I  have  never 
seen  a  more  courteous  or  thoughtful  host,  or  a  man  with 
more  exquisite  manners. 


226  I  MYSELF 

He  never  passed  a  gardener  without  lifting  his  hat,  and  his 
servants  have  followed  his  example  so  closely  in  the  matter 
of  manners,  that  I  wanted  to  know  why  the  butler  had  not 
been  sent  as  Ambassador  to  St  Petersburg.  I  never  had  quite 
such  pretty  attentions  from  anybody  as  that  butler.  He 
listened  at  table  to  my  lightest  word.  If  I  said  I  liked 
venison  it  appeared  at  the  next  meal.  If  I  said  I  liked  roses 
I  found  a  bunch  on  my  dressing-table.  Some  artist  had 
visited  at  Ashburnham  Place  and  made  various  sketches 
while  there,  and  it  occurred  to  the  butler,  after  looking  at  the 
pictures,  that  he  could  paint  too.  So  he  bought  himself  an 
easel,  and  various  tubes  of  colours,  and  straightway  became 
an  artist.  There  was  a  certain  vista  of  the  garden  I  loved, 
and  he  painted  a  most  creditable  little  picture  of  that  view, 
and  subsequently  sent  it  to  me,  accompanied  by  a  ham  from 
Lord  Ashburnham. 

There  was  so  much  of  interest  in  the  house.  The  magnifi- 
cent library  which  had  been  collected  by  the  father  of  Lord 
Ashburnham  was  then  intact ;  among  the  books  was  a  fine 
Mazarin  Bible  in  perfect  condition,  and  a  missal  set  with 
uncut  gems  and  illustrated  by  Raphael.  But  of  far  greater 
interest  to  me  was  the  shirt  worn  by  Charles  I.  the 
day  he  was  beheaded.  It  was  made  of  very  fine  linen, 
with  the  broad  ruffles  around  the  wrists  and  down  the  front 
exquisitely  hemstitched,  and  circling  the  neck  was  a  faint 
salmon  pink  stain.  It  seems  that  one  of  the  former  Ladies 
Ashburnham  had  no  regard  for  the  blood  of  kings,  and  she 
ordered  a  tirewoman  to  wash  the  shirt !  Fortunately  the 
stain  was  like  the  blood-stain  of  Rizzio  in  Holyrood,  too  deep 
to  be  removed. 

All  pleasant  things  come  to  an  end,  and  one  day  we  found 
ourselves  back  in  London,  and  Adele  departed  for  Germany, 
leaving  me  to  bear  the  ceaseless  restlessness  of  Stonecutter 
Street  alone. 

There  was  a  little  interregnum  of  peace  when  Walter 
Ballantine,  that  kind  and  thoughtful  friend,  lent  us  his 
maisonette  in  Victoria  Street.  Merely  to  be  away  from  the 
throb  of  machinery  was  bliss.  Finally  the  noise  and  din  of 


NORWAY  227 

Stonecutter  Street  got  on  T.  P.'s  nerves  as  well,  and  we 
found  a  flat  in  Carlisle  Place,  and  for  a  time  settled  there. 
Then  came  T.  P.'s  resignation  from  "  The  Star,"  and  that 
summer  we  went  with  Thomas  Nelson  Page  and  Johannes 
Wolff  to  Norway  and  spent  a  delightful  few  weeks  there. 
It  was  on  our  return  that  Tom  Page  read  us  his  charming 
story  of  "  Elsket  "  which  he  had  begun  in  Bergen  and 
finished  at  our  house  in  London. 

T.  P.  has  a  remarkable  concentration  of  mind,  and  can 
study  as  easily  now  as  at  eighteen.  Before  we  started  on  our 
trip  I  came  in  one  day  and  found  a  queer-looking  man  in  the 
drawing-room. 

"  Who  is  that  man  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  My  Norwegian  teacher,  madam,"  answered  T.  P.,  and 
with  a  novel,  a  grammar,  and  a  book  of  verbs,  he  soon 
mastered  enough  of  the  language  to  make  us  quite  com- 
fortable in  travelling.  He  has  a  quick  understanding  of  the 
construction  of  a  language,  but  his  ear  is  defective — the 
pronunciation  is  for  him  always  difficult. 

At  Bergen  we  drove  out  to  see  the  Griegs,  whom  I  knew, 
but  they  had  gone  away,  and  so  we  missed  them.  They  had 
a  little  place  near  the  town,  and  they  lived  very  simply. 
Their  quiet  happiness  came  from  within,  and  surely  their 
marriage  was  made  in  heaven,  for  no  two  people  were  ever 
more  contented  together,  or  more  congenial.  They  looked 
exactly  alike,  both  having  wide  open,  childlike,  heavenly  blue 
eyes,  short,  curly,  grey  hair,  and  both  were  small  and  thin. 
They  dressed  alike  in  grey  tweed,  and  when  they  went  out 
wore  overcoats  and  little  round  caps  made  apparently  by  the 
same  tailor. 

Mrs  Grieg  was  a  fine  pianiste,  and  I  have  heard  them  play 
spirited  duets  together,  and  he  never  found  such  an  inter- 
preter of  his  beautiful  gay,  sad,  characteristic  songs  as  she. 
When  he  came  to  London,  and  his  wife  was  just  recovering 
from  a  life  and  death  operation,  a  well-known  singer  was 
engaged  for  one  of  Grieg's  concerts,  and  sang  once,  but  he 
telegraphed  Mrs  Grieg  to  come  if  possible.  She  did,  and 
sang  like  a  nightingale.  Her  voice  even  at  that  time  was  as 


228  I  MYSELF 

fresh  as  that  of  a  girl  of  seventeen — joyous,  melodious  and 
musical. 

They  were  very  young  when  first  engaged  to  be  married, 
and  both  taught  music  and  were  hopelessly  poor,  and  the 
engagement  lasted  years — fifteen  or  seventeen — before  he 
made  enough  money  to  buy  a  little  home  ;  but  they  were 
always  happy  in  each  other  and  consequently  quite  in- 
dependent of  other  people. 

We  all  have  different  ideas  of  happiness.  One  woman 
desires  social  success  above  all  else.  Another  wishes  to 
become  a  great  singer ;  another  a  great  actress ;  another 
longs  to  have  been  born  a  great  beauty ;  but  my  idea  of 
satisfying  happiness  is  that  of  a  close,  congenial,  unbreakable 
companionship,  such  as  Grieg  and  his  wife  had.  It  gives 
that  peace  which  passeth  all  understanding — the  peace  of 
the  mind  and  the  heart.  It  stills  restlessness,  and  makes  the 
sharpest  pain  bearable.  And,  alas,  this  companionship  is 
given  to  so  few  of  us  !  To  me  it  began  and  ended  with  my 
father. 

When  Grieg's  music  became  popular,  he  was  offered 
concert  engagements  all  over  Europe,  but  he  never  wanted 
money.  His  wife,  his  home  and  his  piano,  made  him  com- 
pletely happy. 

M.  Johannes  Wolff  was  a  special  favourite  with  the  great 
composer.  He  thought  no  artist  could  play  Grieg's  Sonata 
with  such  expression  and  feeling,  and  Johannes  Wolff  loved 
Norway,  which  was  also  a  claim  upon  Grieg's  affection. 
The  Norwegians  are  a  very  proud  race — even  the  humblest 
are  self-respecting  and  independent.  When  we  were  all 
travelling  in  the  little  stohlkerries,  each  alone  with  the 
driver,  Johannes  Wolff  complained  to  his  of  the  slowness 
of  his  horse,  whereupon  the  man  said  he  would  go  home — 
though  it  was  only  our  second  day  out — and  home  he  went, 
proudly  refusing  a  penny  for  his  services.  This  taught 
me  a  lesson,  and  every  little  while,  when  my  driver  said, 
"  Good  'orse,  good  'orse,"  I,  looking  at  his  sturdy  steed, 
enthusiastically  agreed. 


CHAPTER   XLII 

A  FRAGRANT  PRECIPICE 

STALHEIM  is  the  most  beautiful  place  in  Norway,  with 
the  hotel  looking  down  a  purple  gorge  of  mountains, 
and  a  fragrant  precipice  was  just  at  the  side  of  my 
bedroom  window — it  must  have  contained  all  sorts  of  strongly 
perfumed  flowers  to  scent  the  air  so  adorably.  And  I 
remember  Stalheim  for  another  reason  as  well :  it  was  there 
T.  P.  and  Tom  Page  elected  to  demonstrate  the  fact  that  men 
are  only  grown-up  boys.  As  the  hotel  was  overflowing,  they 
occupied  the  same  room,  and  each  had  retired  to  his  separate 
little  bed,  when  Tom  Page,  who  did  all  the  last  things  at 
night,  said,  "  T.  P.,  you  open  the  window  to-night,  and  hang 
up  your  wet  stockings  to  dry,  and  blow  out  the  candle," 
but  T.  P.  firmly  declined  any  of  the  offices,  and  the  candle 
was  still  lighted  on  the  table  between  them  when  I  went 
in  the  room  later  for  some  medicine.  "  Why."  I  said,  "  has 
the  candle  been  left  burning  ?  " 

"  Because,"  Tom  Page  grumbled,  "  T.  P.  was  too  darned 
lazy  to  blow  it  out.  After  this  we  must  all  strike  against 
waiting  on  him."  To  restore  harmony,  I  opened  the  window, 
hung  up  the  stockings,  and  blew  out  the  light,  but  unless  I 
had  gone  in  the  room,  the  candle  would  have  burned  to  its 
socket,  a  torch  of  contention  between  a  celebrated  author 
and  a  celebrated  journalist. 

In  Christiania  I  found  Grieg's  world-renowned  Wedding 
March  converted  into  a  picture  :  it  represents  a  midsummer's 
day,  in  a  dark  green  forest.  The  tall  pine  trees  rearing  their 
heads  to  the  blue  sky,  the  hot  bright  sunlight  slanting  through 
and  down  upon  a  rushing  stream,  over  which  the  wedding 

•29 


23o  I  MYSELF 

party  are  crossing.  The  bride  is  in  white  and  on  a  white 
horse,  and  wears  a  silver  crown  which  the  sun  turns  to  pale 
gold. 

The  bridegroom  is  in  green,  rich  in  ancestral  ornaments, 
and  the  wedding  guests  are  clad  in  the  gay  and  picturesque 
peasant  costumes  of  the  country.  It  is  a  happy  rendering 
of  love,  and  youth,  and  colour,  and  coolness,  and  greenness, 
by  an  artist  of  much  poetical  feeling,  and  was  inspired  by 
Grieg's  fairy-like,  characteristic  music.  I  stood  long  enough 
before  it  to  make  it  mine,  and  I  have  only  to  shut  my  eyes 
to  see  it  again. 

At  our  hotel  in  Christiania  every  evening  about  six  o'clock 
we  had  a  visitor  with  whom  I  longed  to  speak — Ibsen.  He 
came  in  the  reading-room  at  this  hour,  settled  himself  in  a 
certain  chair,  and  read  the  English,  German  and  French 
newspapers.  He  resembled  strongly  a  retired  American 
farmer,  with  his  white  beard  under  and  around  his  face  like 
a  ruffle,  his  thick  grey,  wiry,  upstanding  hair,  and  his  small, 
inquisitive,  very  bright  eyes.  He  was  always  dressed  in 
black,  with  a  black  necktie  and  a  soft  black  hat,  and  no  one 
ever  spoke  to  him,  or  he  to  anyone.  I  longed  to  tell  him 
what  a  debt  of  gratitude  all  women  owed  him  for  writing 
"  A  Doll's  House,"  that  great  play  which  is  one  of  the  most 
powerful  pleas  for  the  emancipation  of  woman.  It  is  a 
tragic,  unanswerable  argument  that  they  should  occupy  the 
position  of  comrade  and  friend,  instead  of  child  or  play- 
thing. Nora  understood  the  art  of  flattering  her  husband's 
vanity  by  appealing  to  him  as  a  pretty  playful  baby.  She, 
indeed,  for  a  time,  and  through  his  attitude,  believed  in  his 
superiority,  but  when  the  final  test  came  she  was  the  stronger 
of  the  two.  It  was  her  husband's  latent  cowardice  and 
her  latent  strength  which  the  comedy  she  was  playing  laid 
bare  and  converted  into  a  tragedy. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

THE  LOST  LEADER 

"  Blot  out  his  name  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 
One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footprint  untrod, 
One  more  devil's  triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 
One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God." 

BROWNING 

THERE  is  no  woman,  even  the  most  unthinking,  who  has 
read  or  heard  Nora's  words  that  can  ever  forget  them, 
when  in  answer  to  her  husband's  assertion  that  as  a 
man  he  cannot  sacrifice  his  honour  for  her,  Nora  says  : 
"  That  is  what  hundreds  and  thousands  of  women  have  done, 
and  are  still  doing  every  day." 

It  is  the  false  position  which  women  occupy,  the  necessity 
of  subordinating  an  intelligence  oftentimes  better  and 
keener  than  that  of  man,  simply  on  account  of  sex,  which 
makes  so  many  of  the  heart-breaking  tragedies  of  the  world. 
"  I'm  a  man  and  I  ought  to  know,"  is  a  phrase  which  accounts 
for  a  number  of  the  shipwrecks  which  might  have  been 
avoided  if  the  captain  had  not  steered  the  ship  alone. 

Quite  a  different  man  from  Ibsen  was  Bjornsterne  Bjornson. 
I  saw  him  walking  along  one  very  hot  afternoon,  clothed 
entirely,  like  Mark  Twain,  in  pure  white  heavy  serge.  The 
only  spots  of  colour  were  his  blue,  blue  eyes,  and  a  blue 
pansy  pinned  on  his  coat.  He  was  a  strikingly  hand- 
some man  of  the  real  Viking  type,  very  tall  and  strong 
looking,  with  glittering  hair,  and  eyes  and  a  rolling  gait  like 
a  sailor.  He,  too,  had  advanced  ideas  for  women,  but  his 
genius  was  of  a  more  delicate  order  and  much  less  ruthless 
than  Ibsen's.  His  studies  and  pictures  of  Norwegian  life 
give  a  most  vivid  impression  of  the  country ;  they  are  so 


232  I  MYSELF 

definite,  so  full  of  vigour  and  virility,  and  he  makes  the  rush 
of  the  water  and  the  clearness  of  the  air  an  actuality. 

In  the  autumn  of  that  year  we  went  to  America.  It  was 
necessary  to  raise  funds  for  the  Irish  Party,  and  Mr  Parnell 
sent  for  this  purpose  T.  P.  O'Connor,  William  O'Brien  and 
John  Dillon — if  there  were  other  members,  I  have  forgotten. 
The  possibility  of  a  divorce  between  Mrs  O'Shea  and  her 
husband  had  been  spoken  of,  but  Mr  Parnell  was  strong  in  his 
assurance  that  it  would  not  take  place,  and  even  if  it  did  it 
would  make  no  difference  to  him  or  his  position.  The  first 
meetings  were  overwhelmingly  enthusiastic,  and  the  money 
came  rolling  in,  like  a  tidal  wave.  Bishops,  and  priests,  and 
governors,  and  mayors,  sat  on  the  platforms  and  made 
speeches.  Theatres  were  not  large  enough  to  hold  the 
audiences,  and  opera  houses  were  brought  into  requisition. 

At  that  time  every  one  in  America  believed  in  Home  Rule  ; 
the  party  was  undivided,  working  in  unity  and  held  together 
by  an  iron  hand.  Parnell  was  looked  upon  as  more  astute 
than  Gladstone,  and  quite  as  great  a  party  leader.  The  very 
air  was  full  of  success.  Irish  and  Americans  alike  put  their 
hands  in  their  pockets  to  contribute  to  the  funds,  and  many  of 
the  Irish  chambermaids  gave  each  a  solitary  dollar. 

Then  came  the  news  of  the  divorce,  and  the  tide  turned. 
The  Nonconformist  conscience  is  by  no  means  unknown  in 
America,  and  also  many  American  men  are  grim  and  self- 
controlled.  They  had  no  particle  of  sympathy  for  a  man  who 
could  ruin  his  own  position  and  that  of  his  party  through  Love. 
There  were  columns  upon  columns  in  all  the  American  news- 
papers, and  the  Irish  members  were  besieged  by  reporters, 
who  never  left  them,  night  or  day.  I  remember  washing  my 
hands  and  dressing  my  hair  one  evening  with  three  in  the 
room.  T.  P.  was  extremely  tactful  and  patient  with  them. 
And  at  every  cable,  or  tiny  morsel  of  news,  they  made  a  fresh 
rush,  trying  to  thumbscrew  some  small  opinion  out  of  some- 
body. One  night,  on  the  arrival  of  a  certain  cable,  they  woke 
Mr  Dillon  and  T.  P.  up  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It 
was  always  the  same  question  :  "  Have  you  anything  to  say, 
Mr  O'Connor,  on  the  state  of  affairs  now  ?  " 


THE  LOST  LEADER  233 

The  answer  was  invariably,  "  No,  boys,  I  haven't."  Then 
the  "  boys "  would  invent  what  it  seemed  to  them 
should  have  been  said,  and  we  would  pass  on  to  the  next 
day. 

Mrs  William  O'Brien  was  held  up  to  me  as  a  model  of  dis- 
cretion. She  never  even  looked  in  the  direction  of  a  reporter, 
while  I  occasionally  did  smile  at  some  good-looking  lad,  who 
bade  me  good  morning,  and  I  was  strictly  commanded  to  hold 
my  tongue,  and  on  no  account  to  be  interviewed.  I  slipped 
away  to  Washington  for  a  few  days,  and  missing  my  friends 
at  the  station,  as  they  lived  in  the  country,  I  was  obliged  to 
go  to  the  Arlington  Hotel  for  the  night.  No  sooner  had  I 
sat  down  to  supper  than  a  young  man  appeared. 

"  Is  this  Mrs  O'Connor  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  I  answered  cordially,  thinking,  with  my  bad 
memory  for  faces,  he  was  a  forgotten  friend. 

"  I  am  a  reporter  from  the " 

"  Don't,"  I  said,  "  please  don't  interview  me.  T.  P.  is  in 
mortal  terror  of  my  saying  something  I  ought  not  to  say. 
You  see  I  am  disturbingly  frank,  and  I've  got  no  political 
•opinions  except  that  I'm  a  democrat  from  Texas,  and  anyhow 
I'm  not  the  interesting  one  of  the  family.  If  you  will  leave 
me  out  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know  about  T.  P.  Where  shall  we 
begin  ?  "  » 

The  next  morning  there  was  an  awful  column  headed : 
"  Mrs  T.  P.  says  what  she  ought  not.  The  frankest  woman 
in  America." 

Luckily  there  really  was  nothing  compromising  in  the 
interview,  but  the  Irish  Party  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when 
they  heard  I  had  retired  to  the  country. 

On  my  return  to  New  York  things  were  in  statu  quo — that 
is,  the  Irish  members  were  holding  little  committee  meetings 
from  morning  until  night,  but  could  not  decide  whether  or 
not  to  stand  by  Parnell. 

I  am  in  no  sense  of  the  word,  as  I  have  said  before,  a 
politician,  but  I  wanted  dreadfully,  from  the  dramatic  and 
spectacular  point  of  view,  that  the  Irish  Party  should  to  a  man 
stand  by  Parnell.  In  vain  T.  P.  explained  the  Nonccn- 


234  I  MYSELF 

formist  conscience  to  me.  I  said,  "  They  ought  to  stand  by 
him  like  a  solid  phalanx  of  Roman  soldiers,  and  go  down 
to  history  united.  It  would  be  splendid,  unexpected  and 
intimidating.  The  English  count  on  their  being  disunited. 
They  will  at  last  fear  the  Irish  if  they  rise  or  fall  together." 

I  was  an  enthusiastic,  blind,  unconquerable  Parnellite  in 
those  days,  and  I  thought,  and  think  now,  the  division  of  the 
party  was  a  mistake.  Once  having  been  made,  it  was  not 
a  matter  of  any  consequence  who  became  an  anti-Parnellite 
or  a  Parnellite.  It  was  wiser  to  join  the  majority — the  one 
and  only  thing  was  complete  unity. 

One  day  the  committee  meeting  lasted  so  long  in  the 
Hoffman  House  that  I  finally  went  to  look  for  T.  P.  I 
knocked  at  the  door.  There  was  a  silence,  so  I  went  in. 
Sheets  of  scribbled  paper,  parts  of  memoranda,  and  mani- 
festoes were  scattered  about.  One  of  them  blown  from  the 
table  to  a  chair  caught  my  eye — it,  too,  was  unfinished.  I 
picked  it  up,  and  brought  it  away  with  me,  feeling  that  it  was 
ParnelTs  doom.  How  splendidly  it  reads  : 

"  HOFFMAN  HOUSE, 
"  NEW  YORK. 

"  We  stand  firmly  and  unitedly  by  the  man  who  has  brought 
the  Irish  people  through  unparalleled  difficulties  and  dangers 
from  servitude  and  despair  to  the  very  threshold  of  emancipa- 
tion, with  a  genius,  courage  and  devotion  unequalled  in  our 
history — not  only  in  gratitude  for  these  imperishable  services 
in  the  past,  but  in  the  profound  conviction  that  now  more 
than  ever  Parnell's  leadership  is  the  chief  assurance  of  the 
triumph  of  the  Irish  cause.  We  shall  follow  that  leadership 
loyally  and  unflinchingly " 

It  was  never  finished  or  signed,  and  the  reading  even 
to-day  is  as  sad  as  death.  How  history  might  have  been 
altered  if  it  had  been  finished  and  valiantly  upheld !  Mr 
Parnell  would  not  have  died  of  a  broken,  desperate  heart. 
Irishmen  would  have  proved  themselves  a  united  body  of 
men  of  steady  nerve,  incapable  of  intimidation,  and,  in  spite 


THE  LOST  LEADER  235 

of  Mr  Gladstone's  manifesto,  Home  Rule  would  have  been 
nearer  at  hand  than  now. 

"  And  I  think,  in  the  lives  of  most  women  and  men, 
There's  a  moment  when  all  would  go  smooth  and  even, 
If  only  the  dead  could  find  out  when 
To  come  back,  and  be  forgiven." 

The  Uncrowned  King  has  been  forgiven — the  wild  cheers 
that  enthusiastically  burst  forth  at  the  magic  word  "  Parnell " 
at  all  Irish  meetings  show  this.  But — he  will  never  come 
back.  He  was  ill  and  doomed,  when  at  one  of  his  last 
meetings,  hoping  to  arouse  the  old  enthusiasm,  he  himself 
called  out  hoarsely,  "  Cheers  for  the  Chief  !  Cheers  for  the 
Chief !  "  That  proud,  silent,  self-contained  soul,  to  beg  of  the 
public  for  cheers  !  His  spirit  was  broken,  the  end  was  near. 
A  great  leader  of  men  was  dying. 

"  Whatever  he  to  others  was 

He  was  finer  far  than  anyone  that  I  have  known  beneath  the  sun, 
Sinner,  saint,  or  pharisee " 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

AN  OLD-WORLD  HOUSE  IN  CHELSEA 

ON  my  return  from  New  York,  after  the  Parnell  debacle, 
we  moved  into  a  charming  old-fashioned  house  in 
Upper  Cheyne  Row,  just  around  the  corner  from 
Carlyle's  historic  old  house  (which  has  now  been  turned  into 
a  museum)  in  Cheyne  Row.  The  people  who  lived  in  Oakley 
Lodge  before  us  had  been  tenants  for  thirty  years,  and  were 
broken-hearted  at  leaving  it.  I  can  well  understand,  for  it 
was  unlike  other  houses  and  had  a  character  and  an  in- 
dividuality of  its  own. 

There  were  two  friendly  drawing-rooms  downstairs  with 
low  ceilings,  and  a  pretty  dining-room,  and  above  that 
T.  P.'s  study,  and  a  number  of  bedrooms,  but  the  great  charm 
of  the  place  was  the  long  garden  with  the  old  sundial  in  the 
centre  and  a  number  of  fine  old  trees. 

I  grew  to  love  every  inch  of  the  place,  and  I  shall,  I  hope  and 
know,  now  that  it  is  forever  gone,  never  care  so  much  for  any 
house  again. 

My  friends  found  it  pleasant  to  come  and  see  me  in  the 
summer,  for  a  long  balcony  ran  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and 
here  tea  was  served,  and  every  one  used  to  say  that  it  was  like 
the  country,  so  quiet,  green,  and  peaceful.  Every  Friday 
found  me  at  home,  and  no  one  ever  stood  on  ceremony  with 
me  or  waited  for  me  to  return  their  visits. 

Many  of  my  American  friends  found  their  way  in  the 
pleasant  spring  days  to  the  house  at  Chelsea.  Mrs  Louise 
Chandler  Moulton  came  every  Friday.  She  is  dead  now,  so  it 
doesn't  matter  if  her  pretty  romantic  story,  already  known 
to  her  friends,  is  put  into  print.  Philip  Burke  Marston,  the 
236 


AN  OLD-WORLD  HOUSE  IN  CHELSEA     237 

blind  poet,  fell  in  love  with  her  voice,  when  she  was  no 
longer  in  the  first  freshness  of  her  youth,  and  she  always 
used  to  say  that  she  did  not  mind  his  being  blind,  because  he 
would  never  see  her  grow  old  ;  but  he  never  grew  old  himself, 
and  he  loved  her  to  the  end  of  his  life,  and  she  his  memory, 
to  the  end  of  hers.  She  was  an  appreciative  friend,  and 
what  affectionate  letters  she  always  wrote.  This  one 
enclosed  a  little  paragraph  which  she  had  sent  to  a  Boston 
paper : 

"  17  LANGHAM  STREET, 
"  August  2^th. 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  had  felt  a  little  blue  and 
lonely  to-night,  and  I  said  to  myself  when  the  postman 
knocked,  '  I  do  wish  something  pleasant  would  come  ' — 
and  so  it  did,  in  the  shape  of  your  letter.  Thank  you  for  the 
'  charming  exaggeration  of  your  paragraph.  You  make  me 
out  all  that  I  would  like  to  be. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  to  hear  you  are  ill.  You  are  too  bright  and 
sweet  for  fate  to  give  you  any  suffering.  I  hear  you  praised 
when  I  go  to  Mrs  Perkins  to  try  on  my  gowns,  and  a  dress- 
maker is  always  a  judge  of  character. 

"  I  sent  off  the  poems  to  my  publisher  to-day — thank 
Heaven  ;  now  I  shall  have  a  little  more  leisure.  I  am  going, 

September  3rd,  to  make  a  brief  visit  to  Lady  W ,  about 

two  hours  from  London,  and  then  I  shall  go  either  to  Scotland 
or  Paris,  I  am  not  sure  which.  Next  time  we  are  in  London 
at  the  same  time  I  hope  I  shall  have  the  good  fortune  to  see 
much  of  you. 

"  I  met  the  Pages  at  the  Hendersons',  and  they  promised 
to  come  and  see  me  last  Tuesday,  but  they  were  faithless  and 
didn't.  I  was  sorry,  because  I  liked  them  much. 

"  I  send  my  sheet  full  of  good  and  affectionate  wishes,  and 
a  paragraph  which  I  clip  from  a  Boston  paper,  and  I  am  very 
much  yours,  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON  " 

This  was  the  paragraph  : — 

"  Americans  are  numerous  in  London  just  now.    At  a  little 


238  I  MYSELF 

breakfast,  given  yesterday  by  Mrs  T.  P.  O'Connor,  I  met 
Thomas  Nelson  Page,  whose  work  has  long  been  my  delight, 
and  he  is  himself  quite  as  interesting  as  his  own  books. 
Harold  Frederic  was  there  also,  clever  and  brilliant,  as 
became  the  author  of  '  Seth's  Brother's  Wife,'  and  several 
more  Americans  besides — to  say  nothing  of  Mrs  O'Connor, 
who  is  an  American  herself,  though  she  has  been  the  last 
sixteen  or  seventeen  years  in  London.  I  have  fallen  in  love 
with  Mrs  O'Connor — young,  beautiful,  witty,  gracious,  and 
graceful,  one  is  glad  to  have  America  thus  represented  in 
London  Society.  When  she  talked  I  wanted  to  hear  her  talk 
for  ever,  and  when  she  accompanied  on  her  grand  piano  the 
divine  playing  of  Johannes  Wolff  on  his  violin,  the  enchant- 
ment of  music  completed  the  spell  which  enthralled  me. 

"  Oscar  Wilde  was  at  this  pleasant  breakfast,  and  fairly 
scintillated  with  wit.  The  host  was  talking  to  a  radiant 
blonde,  and  Oscar  Wilde  asked  Mrs  T.  P.  if  she  wasn't  jealous  ? 
She  said  '  No — T.  P.  doesn't  know  a  pretty  woman  when  he 
sees  one.'  Harold  Frederic  said,  '  I  beg  leave  to  differ — 
what  about  yourself  ?  '  Mrs  T.  P.  answered,  '  Oh,  I  was  an 
accident.'  '  Rather,'  said  Oscar  Wilde, '  a  catastrophe  ! ' 

Lord  Glenesk  during  the  heat  of  the  season  would  some- 
times come  and  spend  nearly  a  whole  day  on  my  little  balcony. 
He  was  never  the  same,  poor  man,  after  the  death  of  his  son, 
and  I  remember  driving  out  to  Hampstead  immediately 
after  this  little  note  reached  me  : 

"  139  PICCADILLY,  W. 
"  22nd  August  1904. 

"  DEAREST  RIVAL  AND  SWEET  SUPPLIANT, — I  will  tell  the 
M.P.  to  do  what  it  can  for  you,  but  do  spare  me  and  my 
blushes  and  ask  me  not  to  appear  as  a  photograph  \\ith  a 
phender  under  my  pheet  or  in  my  arms. 

"  My  poor  son  has  been  three  months  in  bed,  and  is  so 
delicate  that  even  the  half-hour's  journey  to  Hampstead 
quite  upset  him.  However,  he  is  better  to-day  and  I  trust 
the  air  up  there  will  set  him  right.  You  may  imagine  what 
.anxiety  we  have  had. 


AN  OLD-WORLD  HOUSE  IN  CHELSEA     239 

"  Please  come  and  see  Mm  when  you  can.  He  would  like 
it. — Sincerely  yours,  GLENESK  " 

When  Frankfort  Moore  first  lived  in  London  he  often 
dropped  in  on  Friday.  Although  his  novels,  many  of  them, 
are  immensely  entertaining,  T.  P.  thought  he  ought  to  return 
to  Journalism,  and  something  was  said  to  Lord  Glenesk,  who 
was  then  Sir  Algernon  Borthwick,  on  the  question  of  Frank- 
fort Moore,  and  he  wrote  me  : 

"  AIRDRIE  LODGE,  KEW  GARDENS, 
"  February  26th,  1895. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — How  good  of  you  !  How  good 
of  Mr  O'Connor  to  mention  my  name  to  Sir  Algernon  Borth- 
wick. I  had  no  idea  of  returning  to  Journalism,  my  books 
have  lately  been  doing  so  extremely  well,  but  so  splendid  a 
post  as  Sir  Algernon  has  at  his  disposal  would  be  a  tempta- 
tion. I  have  written  to  Sir  Algernon,  but  I  do  not  know 
in  what  terms  I  should  write  to  you.  Whether  I  get  the 
thing  or  not,  my  gratitude  to  you  will  be  the  same.  It  was 
so  singular  that  I  should  find  your  kind  letter  awaiting  me 
on  my  return  from  town,  where  I  spent  some  profitable 
minutes  negotiating  with  a  dealer  for  an  ivory  crucifix  for 
you.  You  may  remember,  that  when  I  was  in  your  bed- 
room (doesn't  this  look  like  a  bit  from  a  novel  by  the  author 
who  shocks  people)  I  promised  to  get  you  a  crucifix  possessing 
some  artistic  merit.  I  did  not  forget  that  vow.  I  have  been 
looking  about  me  ever  since,  but  without  success  until  to-day. 
If  I  can  bring  the  Hebrew  who  owns  it  to  reason  to-morrow, 
I  shall  call  with  it  as  near  four  o'clock  as  possible,  but  on 
no  account  wait  in  to  receive  it,  if  I  am  fortunate  enough  to 
get  it. 

"  Thank  you  again  and  again. — Yours  sincerely, 

"  FRANKFORT  MOORE  " 

I  don't  know  if  he  brought  the  Hebrew  to  reason,  but  he 
got  the  crucifix,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  I  ever  saw.  After 


240  I  MYSELF 

hanging  over  my  bed  for  so  many  years  it  now  lies  packed 
away  in  a  box  waiting  for  me  to  have  a  home  once  more. 

Grant  Allen  was  an  occasional  visitor.  I  used  always  to 
say  of  him,  that  if  I  was  a  rich  woman  I  would  give  him 
a  salary  of  £2000  a  year  to  take  a  walk  with  me  every  day. 
He  was  so  full  of  information,  and  had  such  a  very  lucid  way 
of  imparting  it.  Only  to-day  I  looked  at  a  book  which  he 
sent  me  with  the  little  inscription  of  which  he  speaks  : 

"  THE  CROFT, 
"  HINDHEAD,  HASLEMERE, 
"  Thursday. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  meet 
you  again  the  other  night  at  Dr  Bird's. 

"  I  am  sending  you  my  book.  You  will  see  a  little  sketch 
there  of  American  Duchesses.  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of 
dedicating  it  to  one  of  them. 

"  Please  thank  your  husband  most  sincerely  for  his 
generous  review  of '  The  Woman  who  Did.'  It  is  the  kindest, 
honestest,  and  truest  notice  the  book  has  yet  received. 
What- 1  particularly  value  is  the  fact  that  while  differing 
fundamentally  from  the  social  and  ethical  theories  of  the 
book,  he  yet  shows  himself  just  to  them  and  to  it.  I  have 
had  so  much  unfair  treatment  in  other  quarters  that  I  know 
how  to  value  this  frank  and  fearless  criticism. 

"  With  kindest  regards  to  you  both. — Yours  very  cordially, 

"  GRANT  ALLEN  " 


CHAPTER   XLV 

FROM  MY  LETTER  BOOK 

IN  spite  of  my  really  sincere  friendship  for  the  Baroness 
Burdett  Coutts,  I  saw  her  only  too  rarely,  but  some- 
times she  used  to  drive  to  Chelsea,  and  she  was  always 
cordial,  sympathetic  and  unforgetful,  and  if  I  was  going 
away  she  sometimes  sent  me  a  little  note  of  farewell : 

"  STRATTON  STREET, 
"  Thursday. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  very  much  regret  to  learn  by 
your  note  that  you  have  been  so  ill  and  are  now  obliged  to  go 
to  Germany  in  order  to  recruit  your  strength.  Both  Mr 
Burdett  Coutts  and  myself  unite  in  wishing  that  you  will 
return  quite  yourself  again,  and  we  should  have  been  very 
glad  to  have  come  to  you  to-day  and  offered  you  our  best 
wishes  for  a  fine  journey  and  warm  weather,  if  there  be  such 
a  thing  in  this  chilled  world.  Unluckily,  however,  we  cannot 
visit  you  to-day  with  your  other  friends,  for  my  husband 
leaves  London  to-morrow  and  is  overburdened  with  business, 
and  I  have  a  meeting  of  ladies  at  my  house  this  afternoon 
interested  in  the  Great  Northern  Central  Hospital  just 
building. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  must  say  good-bye,  and  in  the 
best  sense  God  speed  you. 

"  I  send  these  roses  for  your  journey. — Believe  me,  Ever 
sincerely  yours,  BURDETT  COUTTS  " 

It  was  at  Oakley  Lodge  that  I  read  "  The  Lost  Leader  " 
to  Max  Hecht  and  received  such  enthusiastic  encouragement 
from  him.  He  possessed  a  great  deal  of  sentiment  and 

16  •*' 


242  I  MYSELF 

understood  what  I  was  trying  to  convey  in  the  play.  My 
poor  play,  that  has  never  been  produced  and  very  likely 
never  will  be.  But  I  had  faith  in  it  then,  and  I  have  faith 
in  it  still,  on  account  of  the  subject,  with  which  history  pro- 
vided me,  and  because  of  the  absolute  honesty  with  which 
I  have  dealt  with  the  subject.  I  have  endeavoured  to  put 
into  the  play  the  relentlessness  of  Fate  toward  all  the  tragedies 
of  love  that  go  on  between  a  woman  who  is  married  and 
a  man  who  is  unmarried,  who  have  the  misfortune  to 
love  each  other  with  sincerity.  I  believe  that  irregular 
relations  can  exist  between  a  man  and  a  woman,  and  they 
may  truly  love  each  other,  and  even  respect  each  other,  but 
the  greater  the  love  and  the  greater  the  respect,  the  more 
terrible  the  tragedy  becomes.  It  is  the  natural  province  of 
man  to  protect  the  woman  he  loves,  and  it  is  the  natural 
province  of  woman  to  seek  this  protection,  but  protection  is 
impossible  except  from  a  husband  to  a  wife.  Gladys  says  to 
the  O'Donoghue  : 

"  Oh,  do  you  understand  me  so  little  ?  I  am  miserable  and  un- 
happy with  you — without  you  I  could  not  eat,  nor  sleep,  nor  live. 
Marriage  is  said  so  often  to  be  a  failure,  but  I  long  for  its  surety  and  its 
ease.  It  is  ten  thousand  times  harder  for  a  woman  and  man  in  our 
situation  to  love  and  be  just  to  each  other.  Bitterness  must  creep  in. 
The  world  is  against  us.  Society,  is  against  us.  Law  and  order  are 
against  us,  and,  worse  than  all,  our  own  conscience  is  against  us.  If  I 
belonged  to  the  highest  and  noblest  type  of  woman  I  would  go  away 
from  you.  But — I  love  you  so." 

The  world  is  always  against  those  who  break  her  very 
wisely  ordained  laws,  and  of  course  the  highest  type  of  man 
and  of  woman  control  themselves  and  never  in  spite  of  suffer- 
ing make  these  sordid  tragedies,  and  I  have  tried  to  convey 
in  my  play  of  "  The  Lost  Leader  "  the  inevitable  end  which 
must  result  from  a  tragic,  wrongly  placed  love. 

Mr  Hecht  tried  to  get  Forbes  Robertson  to  do  it,  and  then 
he  wrote  to  Mrs  Campbell  about  it  and  enclosed  me  this  note 
from  her.  But  nothing  came  of  it  and  I  have  almost  given 
up  hope  of  seeing  it  done. 


FROM  MY  LETTER  BOOK  243 

"  33  KENSINGTON  SQUARE,  W. 

"  DEAR  MR  HECHT, — I  have  always  admired  Mrs 
O'Connor's  Play — Mr  Robertson  knows  that — and  I  have 
tried  for  many  months  to  convince  him  it  was  worth  doing. 
I  thought  a  provincial  trial  production  would  have  been  best. 
— Yours  Sincerely,  S.  P.  CAMPBELL" 

Another  friend  who  came  not  often  enough  to  Oakley 
Lodge  was  Anstey  Guthrie,  that  most  delightful,  modest 
humourist  and  playwright.  Can  I  ever  forget  the  keen 
pleasure  "  The  Man  from  Blankley's  "  gave  me,  even  to  the 
big  red  chrysanthemums  on  the  wall-paper  in  the  first  scene  ? 

I  remember  one  quickly  arranged  dinner  on  Sunday  in  the 
little  house,  when  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  get  Anstey  on 
the  very  shortest  notice,  and  he  wrote  me  : 

"  16  DUKE  STREET  MANSIONS, 
"  GROSVENOR  SQUARE,  W. 
"  i8th  March  1893. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  shall  be  delighted  to  dine  with 
you  to-morrow,  Sunday,  at  7.30. 

"  I  am  pained  that  you  should  suspect  me  of  making  light 
of  ball  fringe  and  mantel  frills  and  turquoise  blue  pots. 
Do  you  really  think  I  have  no  reverence  ?  I  am  having  my 
rooms  done  up  this  Easter,  and  they  are  to  be  all  ball  fringe — 
even  my  dog  will  be  re-covered  in  Waring-Gillow  muslin  and 
have  a  mantel  frill  around  his  tail,  and  he  won't  eat  out  of 
anything  but  an  art  pot  as  it  is.  There  is  nothing  Philistine 
about  us. — Sincerely  yours,  F.  ANSTEY  " 

I  remember  the  very  first  time  that  I  ever  met  Anstey.  It 
was  mid-winter,  and  we  were  both  going  down  to  stay  for 
a  few  days  in  the  country  at  Lady  Jeune's.  I  got  into  the 
train  at  Euston  ;  Sir  Henry  Thompson,  whom  I  did  not  know 
at  that  time,  was  in  a  compartment  alone  when  I,  a  solitary 
female,  entered.  He  examined  me  suspiciously,  and  reached 


244  I  MYSELF 

for  his  bag  preparatory  to  changing  into  another  carriage, 
but  I  saved  him  the  trouble  by  saying  :  "  Pray  don't  get  out : 
you  will  not  be  travelling  with  me  alone  :  my  husband  will 
be  here  in  a  few  moments."  I  wished  him  particularly  to 
stay  as  he  was  taking  down  the  most  adorable  bull  puppy 
to  Lady  Jeune,  a  blue-eyed,  brindled  angel,  and  I  wanted  to 
make  his  acquaintance.  Sir  Henry  gave  his  brother  to  Ada 
Rehan,  and  I  used  often  to  see  him  in  her  dressing-room 
when  she  played  in  London.  I  wonder  if  she  has  him  now  ? 
But  the  blue-eyed,  brindled  angel  grew  up  and  developed 
a  perfectly  maniacal  hatred  of  horses.  After  biting  one  or 
two  cab  horses  severely  in  London,  and  giving  Lady  Jeune 
a  big  bill  of  damages  to  pay,  he  was  sent  down  in  the  country 
where  he  lamed  an  inoffensive  pony,  and  finally,  I  believe, 
was  given  away. 

After  we  had  spent  a  few  days  in  the  country  together, 
Anstey  Guthrie  and  myself  became  fast  friends,  and  I  have 
always  been  grateful  to  him  for  making  me  like  him  as  much 
as  I  do  his  delightful  humourous  books  !  How  many  times 
I  have  sent  "  A  Fallen  Idol "  and  "  Vice  Versa  "  to  friends 
sailing  for  America.  "  The  Pariah  "  in  quite  a  different 
and  more  serious  vein  is  an  exceedingly  fine  novel. 

Paul  Blouet  (Max  O'Rell)  I  knew  very  well.  What  a  wit 
he  was,  and  what  an  inimitable  speaker.  I  do  not  think  I 
ever  heard  anything  so  finished,  and  so  exquisite,  as  his  after- 
dinner  speeches,  and  he  always  had  something  pretty  to  say 
both  in  conversation  and  in  letters  : 

"  MIDLAND  HOTEL,  BRADFORD, 
"  Nov.  2oth,  1900. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — Your  kind  note  was  here  await- 
ing me  when  I  arrived  from  Manchester.  I  shall  not  be  in 
London,  if  my  health  permit  me  to  work,  before  December 
2Oth.  We  could  only  have  that  chat  through  the  long 
distance  telephone,  and  until  Edison  has  given  to  us  his  new 
improved  telephone  which  will  enable  us  to  see  the  people 
we  are  talking  to,  I  should  not  care  to  use  the  present  ones. — 
Sincerely  yours,  PAUL  BLOUET  " 


FROM  MY  LETTER  BOOK  245 

Pett  Ridge  I  also  genuinely  like.  He  is  one  of  the  humour- 
ists who  enjoy  jokes  against  themselves.  Some  years  ago  I 
was  sitting  next  to  him  at  a  public  dinner  when  the  toast- 
master  came  up  and  asked  him  :  "Mr  Pett  Ridge,  will  you 
speak  now,  or  shall  we  let  them  enjoy  themselves  a  little 
longer  ?  "  Pett  Ridge  was  perfectly  delighted.  I  never  saw 
anybody  laugh  more. 

Last  year  I  went  to  a  dinner  party  given  by  a  friend  :  Pett 
Ridge  was  there.  I  was  a  trifle  late,  and  he  had  proposed  a 
"  Pool  "  to  the  men  of  the  party  on  the  precise  moment 
at  which  I  would  arrive.  One  man  said  ten  minutes  late, 
another  fifteen,  somebody  else  twenty-five,  Pett  Ridge  him- 
self said  thirty,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say  won  the  Pool ;  but 
it  happened  in  this  way.  My  friend  had  suddenly  moved. 
I  had  mislaid  her  address,  and  when  I  called  up  to  the  Lyceum 
Club,  they  would  not  let  me  have  it.  I  raged  and  stormed 
at  the  porter  through  the  telephone,  but  it  did  no  good,  and 
then  I  told  him  never  to  refuse  my  address  to  a  single  human 
being  in  the  world  !  Then  I  flew  into  a  cab  and  rushed  to 
Mrs  Greenwood's  former  house.  There  a  nice,  gentle,  old 
lady  gave  me  the  new  address,  and  that  was  the  reason  why 
I  was  so  late,  but  of  course  nobody  believed  any  of  my 
excuses. 

Pett  Ridge  is  also  an  excellent  after-dinner  speaker,  and 
I  should  think  could  give  a  delightful  lecture.  He  should 
try  his  luck  in  the  American  field,  where  they  would  be  sure 
to  like  him. 

When  Eugene  Field  came  over  from  America  he  brought 
me  a  letter  of  introduction  from  a  very  dear  friend,  and  I  was 
so  anxious  to  meet  him,  but  never  did.  He  wrote  me  twice  : 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — A  bad  digestion  aggravated 
by  a  somewhat  severe  attack  of  influenza  has  prevented  me 
from  presenting  the  letter  which  I  herein  send  to  you. 

"  Your  acquaintance  is  an  honour  and  a  pleasure  which 
I  promise  myself  shall  be  mine  in  the  near  future.  I  happen 
to  have  a  favour  to  ask  you,  and  the  righteousness  of  the 
cause  induces  me  to  believe  that  you  will  be  glad  to  grant 


246  I  MYSELF 

the  favour.  Through  the  kind  offices  of  friends  I  have  been 
able  to  secure  one  of  Mr  Gladstone's  axes,  one  of  the  honest 
and  potent  implements  with  which  the  Grand  Old  Man  has 
been  wont  to  work  havoc  in  the  forest  at  Hawarden.  It  is 
my  purpose  to  give  the  axe  to  the  Chicago  Newberry  Library, 
as  soon  as  the  noble  building  of  that  important  institution 
is  completed.  The  relic  will  create  unbounded  enthusiasm 
in  our  country,  for  there,  quite  as  sincerely  as  here,  Gladstone 
is  venerated  and  beloved.  Oscar  Browning,  M.A.  of  King's 
College,  Cambridge,  has  given  me  this  epigram  upon  the 
subject,  and  the  key  of  the  subjoined  translation  of  the 
epigram  : — 

Oceanum  transit  manibus  trita  bene  securis 
Indicium  belli  nuntia  pacaverit 
Eruat  obscures  victrix  nemora  avia  rixse 
Instaretque  novae  fcedus  amicitise. 

The  woodman's  axe  well  worn  by  Gladstone's  hands. 
Emblem  of  war,  speaks  peace  to  distant  lands 
It  goes,  the  bush  of  dark  mistrust  to  clear 
And  found  a  league  of  love  for  many  a  year. 

"  I  have  secured  paraphrases  in  English  of  the  epigram 
from  several  well-known  writers.  Mr  [Andrew]  Lang  sends 
me  two  paraphrases.  I  am  looking  for  some  particularly 
felicitous  phrases  from  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  of  the  *  Boston 
Pilot.'  Now,  will  you  ask  your  distinguished  husband  to 
graciously  favour  me  with  a  paraphrase,  or,  if  the  Muse  be  an 
individual  with  whom  he  has  no  dealings,  will  you  ask  him 
to  kindly  give  me  a  sentiment  suitable  for  publication  with 
the  rest  of  this  literature  upon  the  subject  of  the  enclosed. 

"  It  seems  to  me  just  at  this  moment  that  maybe  he  would 
like  to  print  in  his  newspaper  an  article  upon  this  interesting 
subject.  If  this  should  be  the  case  I  shall  be  most  happy 
to  provide  him  gratuitously,  as  soon  as  I  have  secured  all  the 
material  I  am  seeking,  with  every  detail,  including  versifica- 
tion lines  and  so  forth.  This  original  manuscript  will  eventu- 
ally pass  with  the  axe  into  the  possession  of  the  library  here 


FROM  MY  LETTER  BOOK  247 

before  referred  to.  I  know  you  will  be  interested  as  an 
American  to  assist  me.  —  Believe  me,  dear  Mrs  O'Connor, 
Yours  most  sincerely,  EUGENE  FIELD  " 

"  20  ALFRED  PLACE, 
"  BEDFORD  SQUARE,  LONDON, 
"  Jany, 


"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR,  —  Returning  to  my  lodgings  at 
this  unholy  hour  of  10-45  P.M.  I  found  your  cordial  note, 
and  I  am  reproaching  myself  most  bitterly  that  I  chanced  to 
be  away  from  home  this  particular  evening.  Still,  I  am  a 
sorry  creature  for  a  dinner  just  at  present,  and  it  is  perhaps 
just  as  well  for  your  good  people  that  I  missed  my  bid  to 
your  feast.  Mr  O'Connor  writes  me  that  he  too  is  a  dyspeptic. 
I  have  been  hoping  to  meet  him  and  to  organise  with  him 
a  Mutual  Grievance  Society.  To-morrow  I  go  to  Germany 
to  try  a  season  of  the  alleged  efficacy  of  Teutonic  Spas,  and 
when  I  return  habilitated,  you  and  I  must  banquet  in  good 
old  Texas  fashion.  Although,  alas,  I  fear  no  such  morsel 
as  '  Possum  and  sweet  potatoes  '  are  to  be  had  in  this  raw 
cold  island.  For  six  months  I  have  been  pining  for  my 
native  dishes,  but  I  could  not  eat  them  if  I  had  'em.  How- 
ever, in  the  words  of  the  sweet  singer  of  Michigan,  '  We  may 
be  happy  yet,  you  bet.'  And  by  '  we  '  I  mean,  of  course, 
you  and  Mr  O'Connor  and  aU  the  rest  of  us,  God's  very  elect. 

"  On  my  return  from  Germany  I  shall  do  myself  the  honour 
and  the  pleasure  of  calling  upon  you. 

"  Meanwhile  believe  me,  with  every  assurance  of  regret,  — 
Yours  most  sincerely,  EUGENE  FIELD  " 

"  20  ALFRED  PLACE, 
"  Feby.  26th." 

When  he  came  back  from  Germany  he  was  still  suffering, 
and  sailed  almost  at  once  for  America,  and  to  my  great  regret 
I  never  met  this  charming  poet,  and  was  unable  to  tell  him 
what  exquisite  pleasure  his  tender  verses  of  child-life  had 
given  me. 


248  I  MYSELF 

George  Street  is  another  man  and  author  for  whom  I  have 
a  very  great  regard,  and  I  suppose  I  must  have  read  "  The 
Autobiography  of  a  Boy  "  at  least  a  dozen  times,  and  I  was 
perfectly  horrified  not  long  ago  to  find  out  that  by  an  absurd 
contract  he  had  made  so  little  money  out  of  it.  What  a 
delightful  literary  man  he  is  !  Like  Max  Beerbohm  he  has 
the  technique  of  writing  at  his  fingers  ends,  and  has  an 
immense  sense  of  humour  and  is  a  perfect  encyclopaedia 
about  books  and  literature.  "  Ghosts  of  Piccadilly,"  which 
I  loved,  not  only  for  the  pictures  but  for  the  text,  he  sent  me 
the  winter  before  last  with  this  little  note  : 

"  64  CURZON  STREET,  W., 
"  February  4th,  1909. 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  do  not  suppose  you  have 
seen  this  immortal  work,  but  if  you  have  you  may  like  to  have 
it  for  the  sake  of  the  pictures. 

"  I  enjoyed  myself  so  much  last  night — the  beautiful  little 
play,  and  still  more  the  going  to  it  with  you  three. — Yours 
ever,  GEORGE  STREET  " 

The  beautiful  little  play  of  which  he  speaks  is  "  Pinkie  and 
the  Fairies,"  and  the  three  were  my  son  and  my  daughter 
and  myself. 

George  Moore  is  another  of  my  friends  and  an  always 
welcome  one,  for  I  know  nobody  who  talks  more  brilliantly 
or  more  wittily  than  he.  I  have  often  urged  him  to  go  into 
Parliament,  where,  I  am  sure,  his  many  gifts  would  be  appreci- 
ated, and  if  he  scorns  Parliament  he  can  become  a  decorator. 
His  own  house  in  Merrion  Square,  Dublin,  is  in  the  most 
perfect  taste.  The  front  of  the  house  is  painted  white,  and 
the  door  a  bright  green.  By  some  law  all  the  doors  in 
Merrion  Square  must  be  painted  brown,  and  the  solicitors 
wrote  at  once  to  George  Moore  to  request  that  this  should  be 
done.  Whereupon  he  answered  with  a  most  amusing  letter, 
to  say  that  he  had  made  his  entire  house  a  symphony  in  green 
and  white,  the  hall  being  white  with  a  green  stair  carpet, 
the  dining-room  white  with  green  carpet  and  curtains,  and 


FROM  MY  LETTER  BOOK  249 

the  drawing-room  green  with  white  curtains,  so  that  if 
the  solicitors  wanted  to  change  the  green  front  door  into  a 
brown  one,  he  should  insist  that  they  continued  the  scheme 
of  colour  throughout  the  house.  He  was  quite  willing  to  have 
a  gold  and  white  symphony  at  their  expense  but  not  at  his 
own.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  solicitors  knew  what  a 
symphony  was,  but  at  any  rate  the  letter  remained  unanswered 
and  the  door  remains  green  ! 

When  I  was  playing  in  Dublin  in  "  The  Lady  from  Texas," 
I  went  over  one  morning  and  had  breakfast  with  him.  At 
the  time  he  was  very  enthusiastic  about  Ireland,  which  he 
had  recently  discovered,  and  compelled  his  little  nephews, 
under  pain  of  disinheritance,  to  study  the  Celtic  language. 
But  he  was  very  dissatisfied  with  the  Irish  cooking  and  Irish 
chickens.  "  Look  !  "  he  said,  as  he  helped  me  to  the  wing 
of  a  chicken,  "  at  this  skinny  blue  bird."  (Maeterlinck's 
"  Blue  Bird  "  had  not  been  written  then.)  "  In  Ireland  the 
chickens  are  left  to  pick  up  a  precarious  living  wherever 
they  can  get  it.  The  consequence  is,  that  not  even  Dublin 
produces  anything  but  a  scrawny  and  miserable  fowl.  Now 
a  chicken  is  an  artificial  production.  It  should  be  fed  and 
considered  and  cared  for  until  a  plump  toothsome  creature 
is  produced.  In  future,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  send  to  England 
for  all  chickens." 

Just  before  leaving  London  he  wrote  me  and  I  went  to  tea 
with  him  and  saw  his  flat,  which,  even  in  Victoria  Street,  he 
had  managed  to  make  quite  original  and  charming. 

"  92  VICTORIA  STREET,  S.W., 
"  Saturday. 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — Immediately  after  I  left  you 
I  remembered  that  I  had  promised  Monet  to  go  and  see  the 
pictures  he  is  painting  at  the  Savoy  Hotel  to-morrow,  so  you 
see  I  am  going  out  to  lunch  after  all,  and  at  a  more  incon- 
venient time — at  twelve  o'clock — but  this  I  must  do.  He  is 
an  old  friend,  and  he  is  alone  in  London  and  very  much 
discouraged,  so  he  says. 


250  I  MYSELF 

"  You  said  you  would  like  to  come  to  tea.  Nothing  would 
please  me  more.  I  love  a  talk,  and  you  are  one  of  the  best 
talkers.  I  cannot  only  talk  to  you — I  can  even  listen.  Do 
come  or  ask  me  to  come  to  you  soon. — Always  sincerely  yours, 

"  GEORGE  MOORE  " 

One  Christmas,  Mrs  Henniker,  who  has  written  many 
charming  stories  and  a  clever  play,  asked  us  to  spend  Christ- 
mas at  Fryston  Hall  with  Lord  Crewe,  her  brother,  and  her- 
self. It  was  a  delightful  week. 

The  other  guests  were  Herbert  Paul,  that  very  brilliant 
writer  (and  by  the  way  why  has  he  not  written  a  political 
novel,  he  could  do  it  better  than  anybody  else,  and  make  it 
remarkably  interesting),  Mrs  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett, 
and  that  perfectly  delightful  being,  Bret  Harte.  Every 
morning  a  little  box  arrived  for  him  containing  a 
carnation,  a  rosebud,  or  a  bunch  of  violets.  He  loved 
being  well  dressed,  and  often  wore  a  red  necktie.  He 
delighted  in  brilliant  colours.  He  was  a  charming  con- 
versationalist ;  his  voice  was  quiet  and  sweet,  he  was  per- 
fectly natural,  very  modest  and  full  of  humour.  He  told  me 
that  when  his  last  baby  was  born,  the  youngest  boy,  about 
five,  was  sitting  in  the  dining-room  looking  at  a  picture-book. 
Bret  Harte  went  in  thinking  to  surprise  and  please  him 
and  said  :  "  Your  mother  has  given  you  a  little  brother." 
The  child  looked  up,  greatly  disappointed,  and  said  :  "  I  do 
wish  she  had  asked  me,  and  I  would  have  told  her  to  give 
me  a  little  donkey." 

Bret  Harte  was  not  a  good  walker,  but  said  he  would  walk 
with  me  if  I  would  let  him  make  laps  around  the  house, 
keeping  it  in  view,  as  if  he  got  too  far  away  he  at  once  felt 
tired. 

One  day  while  we  were  lapping  our  circle,  he  said  :  "  Now, 
you  are  a  woman,  I  want  you  to  explain  to  me  one  of  the 
inexplicable  actions  of  your  sex.  Years  ago,  when  I  was  a 
very  young  man  and  living  in  California,  a  beautiful  young 
lady,  who  was  separated  from  her  husband,  in  order  to  eke 
out  her  income  took  a  few  paying  guests — I  was  one  of  them. 


FROM  MY  LETTER  BOOK  251 

I  at  once  fell  in  love  with  her  and  we  became  rather  more 
than  friends,  and  I  passed  one  or  two  very  happy  years  in  her 
house,  when  a  brother  of  hers,  a  clergyman  from  the  East, 
proposed  coming  to  California  for  the  winter,  when  suddenly 
her  conscience  woke  up,  and  I  was  told  that  I  must  find  a 
home  elsewhere.  I  was  going  to  another  town  anyhow  to  edit 
a  small  paper,  and  so  we  parted  on  the  most  affectionate 
terms,  and  before  we  were  to  meet  again  her  divorce  would 
have  ended,  and  I  had  every  intention  of  marrying  her. 
That  winter  I  wrote  '  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,'  and  she 
got  her  divorce  and  married  a  millionaire,  and  became  a 
leader  of  Society  and  eminently  respectable.  One  day  a 
friend  sent  me  a  magazine,  and  in  it,  I  think,  was  the  bitterest 
attack  on  me  and  on  my  story  that  I  have  ever  read.  It 
simply  flayed  me  alive  !  It  said  I  was  advocating  vice 
instead  of  virtue,  and  that  every  virtuous  woman  should 
boycott  the  story,  and  not  stop  there  but  boycott  me.  Now 
a  publisher  had  undertaken  to  make  a  small  book  of  '  The 
Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  '  and  some  of  my  other  tales,  and  it 
was  he  who  called  my  attention  to  this  article,  and  told  me 
that  he  also  knew  the  author.  I  thought  it  was  some  orthodox, 
extremely  narrow-minded  man,  probably  a  Puritan  Yankee, 
so  what  was  my  surprise  when  he  told  me  a  lady  had  written 
it,  naming  my  former  love.  He  said  that  at  the  moment 
she  was  in  town  opening  a  bazaar,  and  suggested  that  I  should 
go  down  and  muzzle  her  so  that  she  would  not  again  bite 
me  to  the  bone.  I  went  to  the  bazaar ;  she  was  there, 
looking  like  a  pure  angel,  and  when  I  spoke  to  her  she  said 
quite  clearly  :  '  Mr  Harte,  no  self-respecting  woman  can  talk 
to  you  after  writing  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "  ;  I  must 
bid  you  good  day  ! '  I  lifted  my  hat  and  went  out,  and  never 
saw  her  again.  Now,  you  are  a  woman,  pray  explain  to  me 
her  conduct,  because  I  have  been  puzzling  over  it  for  many, 
many  years  ?  " 

I  said  :  "It's  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  She  was  a 
wolf  so  cunningly  dressed  up  in  sheep's  clothing  that  every- 
body in  the  world  thought  her  a  sheep  except  yourself,  and 
she  was  very  angry  and  bitter  that  even  one  person  had 


252  I  MYSELF 

found  her  out.     How  she  must  have  enjoyed  reading  that 
article  to  her  lammy  lambkin  of  a  husband." 

That  Christmas  Lord  Crewe  gave  one  of  Jane  Austen's 
books  to  Bret  Harte,  and  within  was  inscribed  this 
charming  little  verse : 

"  Beneath  our  grey  unlovely  skies 
She  wielded  once  her  dainty  pen, 
With  tolerant  smile  and  wistful  eyes 
Calm  critic  of  the  minds  of  men. 

Brave  wizard  of  the  brighter  west, 
Though  life  be  short,  yet  Art  endures, 
Shadow  or  sun  we  love  the  best 
That  Art  can  give  us,  hers  or  yours." 

I  was  much  impressed  by  Mrs  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett's 
industry.  She  wrote  every  morning  for  two  hours  and 
accomplished  a  great  deal  of  work  ;  to  write  for  her  is  as  easy, 
as  spontaneous,  and  as  natural,  as  for  other  people  to  talk. 
And  what  a  very  amiable,  delightful  companion  she  is.  I 
saw  her  last  winter  in  New  York  looking  not  one  day  older 
and,  as  always,  happy  and  successful. 

We  came  back  to  London  from  Lord  Crewe's  just  in  time 
for  one  of  our  premier  dramatist's  first  nights.  What  has 
become  of  Pinero's  vein  of  comedy  ?  (How  perfectly  delight- 
ful his  first  plays  were !  Who  will  ever  forget  Mrs  John 
Wood  in  "  Dandy  Dick  "  ?)  Of  late  years  Sir  Arthur  has 
grown  serious  and  sadly  cynical.  The  "  Thunderbolt " 
impressed  me  far  more  than  "  Iris,"  and  I  wrote  an  apprecia- 
tion of  it  and  received  this  word  in  reply  : 

"  STILLANDS,  NORTH  CHAPEL, 
"  SUSSEX. 

"My  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — As  a  big  dramatist  once  wrote 
to  Bjorn  Bjornson,  one  cannot  return  thanks  for  being 
praised  ;  but  being  understood — that  makes  one  inexpress- 
ibly grateful. 

"  Certainly  I  will  read   '  The  Lost  Leader '  play  again 


FROM  MY  LETTER  BOOK  253 

when  I  return  to  business  in  the  autumn.     My  recollection  is 
that  it  had  much  good  in  it. 

"  With  warm  regards  in  which  my  wife  joins. — I  am,  Yours 
always  truly,  ARTHUR  W.  PINERO  " 

As  a  man  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  is  wonderfully  attractive. 
He  is  so  large  minded  and  kind  and  tender.  Lady  Pinero, 
I  am  sure,  is  a  very  happy  woman,  for  the  one  thing  most 
conducive  to  a  woman's  happiness  is  tenderness.  If  her 
husband  gives  her  that,  she  can  be  contented  with  very  little 
else,  but  if  a  husband  like  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  gives  her  tender- 
ness and  fame  and  a  charming  home,  she  is  indeed  a  blessed 
woman. 

Sir  Arthur  is  not  only  unique  in  his  genius  as  a  playwright, 
but  he  is  unique  in  his  genius  for  neatness.  In  his  study 
there  is  not  one  speck  of  dust  to  be  found,  or  one  book,  or  one 
pen,  or  one  paper  out  of  its  place.  It  is  order  personified. 
This  shows  there  are  always  exceptions  to  the  rule,  and  that 
a  literary  man  can  be  as  orderly  as  a  soldier. 

Another  literary  man  that  I  knew  who  was  very  neat  and 
methodical  was  Sir  Edwin  Arnold.  And  what  a  very  agree- 
able man  he  was.  I  heard  him  speak  the  Japanese  language 
once,  and  it  was  pure  music.  I  was  a  great  admirer  of  his 
"  Light  of  Asia,"  and  he  sent  me  such  a  charming  copy  of 
that  work,  which  some  kind  friend  borrowed  and  never 
returned.  He  told  me  that  on  one  occasion  in  America  a 
newspaper  reporter  had  extracted  a  long  interview  from  him, 
and  just  at  the  end  said :  "  Now,  Sir  Edwin,  what  is  your 
opinion  of  the  American  woman  ?  "  "  An  exhaustive 
subject,"  said  Sir  Edwin,  "  but  I  can  dispose  of  it  in  one  word, 
Afrin."  "  And  what,"  said  the  reporter,  "  does  that  mean  ?  " 
"  It  is  Turkish,"  said  Sir  Edwin,  and  means,  "  Oh  Allah, 
make  many  more  of  them,"  and  then  he  ran  away. 

He  used  to  find  his  way  sometimes  to  the  little  house  in 
Chelsea,  and  this  particular  Tuesday  afternoon  I  happened 
to  be  alone,  and  he  read  me  himself  the  greater  part  of  "  The 
Light  of  Asia." 


254  I  MYSELF 

"  45  KENSINGTON  PARK  GARDENS,  W., 
"  July  2nd,  1891. 

"  Best  thanks,  dear  and  sweet  Mrs  O'Connor !  Most 
gladly  would  I  accept  your  pleasant  invitation,  but  have  a 
dinner  party  myself  on  Sunday,  to  which  I  was  going  to 
invite  you.  I  am  going  afterwards  to  Fleet  Street. 

"  If  you  are  free,  I  shall  come  to  you  for  a  cup  of  tea  on 
Tuesday  afternoon. — Yours  always  most  sincerely, 

"  EDWIN  ARNOLD  " 

We  talked  of  all  sorts  of  subjects  and  people,  and  he 
expressed  a  great  admiration  for  Sir  Frank  Carruthers  Gould, 
and  said  how  much  he  had  done  for  the  Liberal  Party. 
An  extraordinary  thing  to  me  is  the  way  that  Sir  Frank  has 
absolutely  mastered  the  Negro  dialect.  He  never  makes 
a  mistake  any  more  than  if  he  had  been  born  and  brought  up 
way  down  South  in  Georgia.  Indeed,  I  always  associate  him 
in  my  mind  with  Uncle  Remus,  and  recently  I  sent  him  a  little 
rabbit  in  a  pink  coat  and  blue  shoes,  with  a  note  in  Negro 
dialect,  and  he  wrote  me  in  answer  : 

"  3  ENDSLEIGH  STREET, 

"  TAVISTOCK  SQUARE,  W.C., 

"  i^th  October  1908. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — It  is  monstous  good  of  Sis 
O'Connor  to  say  Howdy  to  me  in  such  a  delightful  way. 

"  Little  Rab  of  de  Blue  Shoes  shall  certainly  have  house 
room,  and  he  is  now  standing  watching  over  a  Japanese  mouse 
on  a  special  shelf  with  the  Combat  des  Trente  raging  in 
high  relief  close  by,  while  above  him  is  a  Madonna-faced 
St  George  with  a  pious  expression  pushing  a  large  silver  knife 
into  a  sweetly  smiling  green  dragon. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  you  are  not  well — chacun  a  son  gout  in 
this  climate,  and  I  am  not  surprised  that  Virginia  calls  you 
when  you  ache. 

"  Uncle  Remus  ought  never  to  have  died  seeing  that  he 
kept  so  many  of  us  alive.  If  I  had  to  pull  down  all  the 
existing  statues  in  London  and  put  up  new  ones,  I  should 


FROM  MY  LETTER  BOOK  255 

begin  with  Chaucer  and  all  his  Canterbury  Pilgrims, 
and  then  I  should  start  on  Uncle  Remus's  menagerie 
and  the  Wonderland  creatures.  There  would  be  some- 
thing worth  looking  at  then. 

"  If  you  will  let  me  know  when  you  are  in  London  again, 
I  should  much  like  to  come  and  have  a  chat. — With  kindest 
regards,  Believe  me,  Yours  Sincerely, 

"  CARRUTHERS  GOULD  " 

It  fairly  warms  the  cockles  of  my  heart  to  feel  that  this 
great  artist  loves  and  understands  my  countryman  as  well 
as  I  do  myself. 

I  used  to  see  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  occasionally  at  the 
Laboucheres'  when  they  lived  in  Queen  Anne's  Gate :  his 
house  was  only  a  few  doors  away.  He  was  a  clever  man  with 
a  keen  mind,  and  he  loved  to  get  up  a  subject.  He  knew  a 
great  deal  about  electricity,  and  could  have  been  an  electrical 
engineer,  and  he  was  immensely  interested  in  Science.  Very 
likely  even  then  he  had  his  theories  about  flying  machines. 
After  he  married  Lily,  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  she  brought 
him  to  see  me  on  one  of  my  Fridays,  and  he  looked  around  my 
little  Chelsea  house  and  said,  "  The  difference  between  you 
and  me  is  this,  I  can  make  a  pretty  house  only  with  taste  and 
money,  while  you  can  manage  to  do  it  only  with  taste." 

I  considered  this  a  very  great  compliment  as  he  had 
wonderful  taste  and  ingenuity  as  well.  When  he  took  his 
house  in  Carlton  House  Terrace,  the  staircase  was  long  and 
narrow,  and  he  changed  the  whole  appearance  of  it  by  having 
a  wrought-iron  baluster  curved  out  very  much  wider  at  the 
bottom  than  at  the  top.  He  never  minded  what  trouble  he 
took  over  decoration.  He  would  find  an  old  piece  of  brocade 
and  wait  months  to  have  it  copied  on  account  of  the  design 
and  colour,  and  the  whole  result  was  beautiful. 

A  house  is  a  thing  to  me  like  a  friend.  It  requires  constant 
personal  every-day  attention  to  make  it  repay  you,  and  love 
you,  but  some  houses  of  course  are,  with  the  best  will  in  the 
world,  hopeless.  When  the  Laboucheres  lived  in  Grosvenor 
Gardens,  in  one  of  those  long  up  and  down  characterless 


256  I  MYSELF 

houses,  even  Mrs  Labouchere,  with  her  love  of  home,  and  Mr 
Labouchere,  with  his  mania  for  building  and  changing,  could 
do  absolutely  nothing  with  it.  But  when  they  bought  5  Old 
Palace  Yard  from  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  it  was  full  of 
charm  and  possibilities  and  eventually  became  one  of  the 
most  delightful  houses  in  London.  Mrs  Labouchere  was 
always  an  excellent  housekeeper,  and  there  was  an  agreeable 
atmosphere  in  their  home,  as  she  and  her  husband  have  a 
thoroughly  comfortable  understanding  together,  the  sort  of 
close  understanding  which  means  that  if  one  of  them  died, 
the  other  (I  am  sure)  would  soon  follow. 

Before  the  Laboucheres  lived  in  Old  Palace  Yard,  various 
interesting  people  had  owned  the  house,  and  a  certain  lady 
who  was  at  one  time  Chatelaine  there,  had  very  high 
political  aspirations  and  a  desire  to  be  exclusive.  Her 
husband,  on  the  contrary,  a  Member  of  Parliament,  was  most 
democratic  in  his  tendencies,  so  there  was  often  a  great 
mixture  in  their  entertainments.  One  night  at  dinner  John 
Bright  was  sitting  near  his  hostess,  and  she  was  rather 
annoyed  at  having  him  among  her  smart  guests  and  thought 
to  give  him  a  direct  snub,  so  she  said  during  a  pause  in  the 
conversation  :  "  Mr  Bright,  this  rug,  I  understand,  was  made 
by  you,  and  I  am  very  dissatisfied  with  it.  I  have  only  had 
it  a  short  time,  and  it  is  very  shabby  and  badly  made." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Mr  Bright,  getting  up  deliberately  from  the 
table  and  taking  a  silver  candelabrum  which  he  put  down 
upon  the  floor,  and  getting  on  his  knees,  closely  examined  the 
carpet.  "  You  are  quite  right,"  he  said,  blithely  getting  up, 
"  it  is  a  bad  carpet,  and  I  will  order  my  firm  to  send  you 
another  in  its  place,"  and  then  he  calmly  resumed  his  political 
conversation  and  the  dinner  went  on. 

The  house  in  Old  Palace  Yard  has  now  been  bought  by  the 
Government  and  looks  deserted,  and  I  never  go  by  it  without 
a  pang,  and  Oakley  Lodge  is  a  dream  of  the  past :  so  to  me 
London  is  losing  its  interest.  I  am  not  so  old,  but  life's 
changes  have  been  grievous. 


CHAPTER   XLVI 

A  LONG  AGO  MEMORY  OF  LISZT 

I  REMEMBER  long  ago,  at  the  Lytteltons',  seeing  Liszt. 
He  was  a  very  calm  and  beautiful  old  man,  with  white 
hair  and  the  noblest  warts  I  think  I  ever  saw.  They 
gave  his  face  a  benign  expression.  There  was  some  talk  of 
his  playing  that  night,  but  he  didn't.  To  me  he  was  an 
object  of  great  interest,  as  the  man  who  had  been  a  faithful 
lover  for  thirty  years  to  the  same  woman,  and  had  written 
many  hundreds  of  letters,  four  hundred  being  published ; 
and  yet  the  Princess  Wittgenstein  was  not  a  beauty,  nor 
even  soft  or  feminine,  but  she  was  ambitious,  courageous 
and  encouraging.  It  was  through  her  that  he  composed  his 
"  Dante  and  St  Elizabeth,"  and  he  always  said  his  best 
work  was  due  to  her.  I  felt  that  Liszt  was  lovable,  and 
it  would  have  been  a  pleasure  to  know  him  better. 

My  friends  I  choose  entirely  to  suit  myself.  It  is  to  their 
credit  if  they  happen  to  be  Princes,  but  if  they  happen  to  be 
paupers  I  can  still  love  and  appreciate  them. 

Prince  Christian  of  Schleswig-Holstein  is  one  of  my  friends, 
and  is  one's  ideal  of  a  Prince  ;  always  courteous,  always  kind, 
perfectly  simple  and  unassuming,  a  really  grand  old  gentle- 
man. In  many  respects  he  reminds  me  of  Justin  M'Carthy  ; 
they  both  have  the  same  gentleness,  the  same  considerate- 
ness,  and  the  same  power  of  attracting  hearts. 

He  sent  me  a  photograph  of  himself,  taken  in  the  pictur- 
esque dress  he  wore  at  the  Devonshire  Ball.  It  was  a  correct 
copy  of  one  of  his  ancestors  who  tried  to  marry  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  it  was  accompanied  by  a  kind  little  note, 
which  I  must  not  reproduce.  This  ancestor,  the  Duke, 


258  I  MYSELF 

received  the  Garter  from  Queen  Elizabeth,  who  flirted  with 
him  in  some  sort  of  way,  and  probably  gave  the  Garter  as  a 
consolation  to  his  wounded  vanity.  He  married  afterwards  a 
Hessian  Princess. 

We  were  staying  in  Bradford,  and  on  leaving,  Mrs  Byles, 
that  clever  woman  and  silver-tongued  orator,  gave  me  a 
little  yellow  book  to  read  in  the  train,  saying  it  was  astonish- 
ingly clever ;  the  author's  name,  John  Oliver  Hobbes,  was 
unknown.  I  didn't  read  it  immediately — but  one  day  in 
Chelsea  picked  it  up  and  was  much  struck  with  what  seemed 
to  be  the  author's  experience,  disillusion,  brilliance,  cynicism 
and  wit.  I  begged  T.  P.  to  read  it,  but  he  declined,  so  I 
boldly  read  a  few  passages  aloud  although  he  was  busy  with 
an  evening  paper.  He  made  no  remark  except  to  beg  me  to 
be  quiet,  but  later  in  the  evening  I  saw  him  become  absorbed 
in  the  book,  and  when  he  made  it  the  book  of  the  week,  John 
Morgan  Richards,  Mrs  Craigie's  father,  wrote  him  a  letter 
of  thanks,  and  this  was  followed  by  a  visit  from  the  authoress 
herself.  I  don't  know  why,  but  "  Some  Emotions  and  a 
Moral "  had  conjured  up  in  my  mind  a  vision  of  pearl-powder, 
blonde  hair,  and  a  lady  of  forty.  What  was  my  surprise  to 
see  a  girl  of  twenty-five,  with  brilliant  dark  eyes,  brown  hair, 
the  fresh  complexion  of  youth,  a  charming  personality  and 
gowned  quite  like  one  of  her  own  heroines.  Dressed  all  in 
purple  velvet,  with  a  bunch  of  parma  violets  fastened  to  her 
bodice  by  a  jewelled  pin,  and  with  her  rich  furs,  she  looked 
the  woman  of  fashion  rather  than  the  budding  literary  genius. 
But  with  all  this  lavishness  of  dress,  she  was  really  indifferent 
to  it.  I  saw  her  later  under  circumstances  which  disclosed 
the  real  woman.  She  came  on  a  Friday  in  June  to  see  me, 
dressed  in  an  exquisite  gown  of  white  chiffon  embroidered  in 
silver  fleur-de-lys,  and  Max,  my  collie,  who  had  a  perfect 
passion  for  white,  sat  himself  down  in  front  of  Mrs  Craigie, 
and  after  admiring  her  for  many  minutes,  got  up  and  laid 
his  head  in  her  lap,  and  his  nose  made  a  long  wet  dark  mark 
on  the  delicate  fabric.  She  laughed  like  a  happy  child  and 
didn't  mind  a  bit.  All  the  agony  and  mortification  was 
mine,  and  from  that  day  Max  was  never  allowed  to  "  receive  " 


A  LONG  AGO  MEMORY  OF  LISZT         259 

with  me  again.  Mrs  Craigie  liked  her  pretty  costumes  only 
for  the  pleasure  they  gave  other  people.  Her  mind  was  a 
purely  intellectual  one,  and  with  study,  books,  and  her  own 
thoughts,  she  was  quite  independent  of  the  material  things 
of  life.  But  she  was  wise  enough  to  know  the  store  which  the 
world  set  upon  them  and  she  used  them  accordingly.  And 
how  much  she  gave  the  world — brilliant  books,  good  looks, 
witty  conversation,  musical  ability,  and  her  fascinating, 
good-humoured,  delightful  self !  No  matter  how  tired  she 
was  physically,  socially  she  never  flagged. 

It  is  good  to  die  young.  But  Pearl  Craigie's  death  was  a 
tragedy,  for  she  had  not  yet  done  her  best  work.  She  had 
not  yet  found  herself.  No  living  author  could  have  written 
such  telling  comedy  as  she  ;  it  was  her  youth,  and  her  ambi- 
tion that  made  her  portray  the  too  serious  side  of  life  ;  and  it 
was  a  mistake,  for  humourists  are  not  found  every  day.  She 
was  one  of  the  most  loyal  of  friends.  I  had  occasion,  while 
President  of  the  Society  of  Women  Journalists,  to  take  a 
stand  in  a  matter  of  some  importance,  and  Pearl  wrote  me 
this  letter : 

"  56  LANCASTER  GATE, 
"  Tuesday. 

"  MY  DEAR  BESSIE, — I  have  seen  Mrs  H.  and  she  ex- 
plained the  raison  d'etre  of  the  Committee  meeting  to-morrow, 
and  while  I  like  her,  I  told  her  that  you  were  my  friend,  and, 
without  even  an  explanation  from  you,  which  now  I  have  no 
time  to  hear,  that  I  would  give  my  entire  support  to  you 
and  would  of  course  vote  against  her.  I  will  be  with  you 
early  to-morrow  at  Gray's  Inn.  With  love, — Yours  affec- 
tionately, PEARL  MARY  TERESA  CRAIGIE  " 

Mrs  Craigie  was  literally  brought  up  in  a  house  of  mirth, 
for  her  mother,  Mrs  John  Morgan  Richards,  is  one  of  the 
wittiest  women  in  the  world.  She  is  an  inimitable  mimic, 
her  mind  is  a  purely  original  one,  she  simply  bubbles  over 
with  humour  and  with  fun,  and  beneath  this  gay  exterior 
her  great  heart  responds  to  both  spiritual  and  righteous 
things. 


260  I  MYSELF 

Before  the  war  was  declared  between  the  United  States 
and  Cuba,  and  while  it  was  being  agitated,  Mrs  Richards  was 
using  every  argument  against  it,  and  finally  she  sent  this 
telegram  :  "  Pope,  Vatican,  Rome.  Stop  War.  Richards." 
Whether  it  reached  His  Eminence  or  not,  I  do  not  know, 
but  I  envy  her  family  Mrs  Richards. 

Pearl  said  once  that  her  father  might  as  well  have  married 
a  strong  north  wind,  but  after  all,  where  would  the  health 
of  the  world  be  without  a  strong  north  wind  ? 

At  one  time  Mr  Richards  was  quite  ill,  and  he  and  his  wife 
went  to  Switzerland.  He  was  very  depressed  in  spirits,  and 
one  morning  while  talking  to  his  wife  about  what  he  needed, 
she  said  to  him,  "  John,  I  will  tell  you  what  you  need  ;  you 
need  a  good  course  of  elocution  lessons,  and  I  will  give  you 
one  myself  now,"  and  thereupon  began  the  most  amusing 
recitation  possible.  Mr  Richards  laughed  and  laughed,  and 
from  that  moment  his  recovery  began. 

When  I  went  to  return  Mrs  Craigie's  first  visit,  I 
was  shown  up  in  the  drawing-room  by  the  butler,  whose 
hair  was  grey  in  patches  (I  dare  say  Mrs  Richards'  uncon- 
ventional humour  had  had  something  to  do  with  it),  and 
seated  at  the  end  of  the  very  long  drawing-room  was  a  lady 
busily  writing,  who  did  not  turn  at  once  as  I  came  in.  The 
butler  announced  :  "  Mrs  O'Connor  !  "  She  went  on  writing 
and  said,  "  Mrs  who  ?  "  The  butler  said  :  "  Mrs  O'Connor  "  ; 
she  continued  to  write.  Then  the  butler  said  :  "  Mrs  T.  P. 
O'Connor  !  "  and  she  said,  "  What,  the  woman  that  has  been 
so  good  to  my  Pearl  ?  "  She  turned  around  then,  and  said, 
"  My  dear,  come  here  and  kiss  me  at  once,"  and  I  did  with 
the  greatest  pleasure,  and  from  that  time  we  have  been 
understanding  friends. 

Mrs  Craigie  had  her  own  beautiful  little  house  that  was  more 
like  the  inside  of  a  jewel-box  than  anything  else,  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  Steephill  Castle,  the  residence  of  her  father, 
in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  but  she  never  went  there  to  live.  She 
would  have  missed  too  much  the  brightness  and  gaiety  and 
wide-armed  hospitality  of  her  father's  home.  Even  in  their 
overwhelming  sorrow  at  her  loss  these  unselfish  people  con- 


A  LONG  AGO  MEMORY  OF  LISZT         261 

trolled  their  grief  for  the  sake  of  their  friends.  Once  at 
least  her  mother's  prayers  were  answered,  for  when  Pearl 
was  a  little  girl,  and  grievously  ill,  the  doctor  said  nothing 
could  save  her  and  Mrs  Richards  took  her  husband  by  the 
hand  and  said  :  "  Come  into  the  other  room,  John,  and  pray, 
pray  :  we  will  pray  together."  And  that  night  the  child  was 
out  of  danger. 

On  the  whole,  I  cannot  imagine  a  happier  life  than  Mrs 
Craigie's.  She  was  always  surrounded  by  people  who  loved 
her,  people  who  were  considerate  of  her,  and  she  had  health, 
and  good  looks,  and  great  success,  a  devoted  son,  and  troops 
of  friends,  and  she  deserved  them  each  and  every  one.  And 
she  died  before  sadness  or  old  age  had  touched  her. 


CHAPTER   XLVII 

MY  DEBT  OF  GRATITUDE  TO  A  GROUP  OF  AUTHORS 

ANOTHER  novelist  has  appeared  on  the  horizon,  who 
I  prophesy  will  make  quick  success — Mr  A.  S. 
Hutchinson.  His  sense  of  humour  is  delicious, 
irrepressible,  and  spontaneous.  I  read  his  first  book,  "  Once 
aboard  the  Lugger,"  while  suffering  from  a  bout  of  insomnia, 
certainly  the  most  discouraging  influence  possible  for  both 
the  author  and  myself.  And  even  toward  the  grey  hours  of 
the  dawn,  I  was  gurgling  with  laughter,  and  one  little  bit  of 
philosophy  took  hold  of  my  memory  and  remained  in  it. 

"  A  sleepy  maid  in  Mr  City  Merchant's  suburban  mansion 
leaves  the  dustpan  on  the  stairs  after  sweeping.  That  is  the 
little  action  she  has  tossed  into  the  sea  of  life,  and  the  ripples 
will  wreck  a  boat  or  two  now  snug  and  safe  in  a  cheap  and 
happy  home  many  miles  away.  Mr  City  Merchant  trips  over 
the  dustpan,  starts  for  office  fuming  with  rage,  vents  his 
spleen  upon  Mr  City  Clerk — dismisses  him. 

"  Mr  City  Clerk  seeks  work  in  vain  ;  the  cheap  but  happy 
home  he  shares  with  pretty  little  Mrs  City  Clerk  and  plump 
young  Master  City  Clerk  is  abandoned  for  a  dingy  lodging. 
Grade  by  grade  the  lodging  they  must  seek  grows  dingier. 
Now,  there  is  no  food.  Now,  they  are  getting  desperate. 
Now  pneumonia  lays  erstwhile  plump  Master  City  Clerk  by 
the  heels  and  carries  him  off — consequences,  consequences  ; 
that  is  one  boat  wrecked.  Now  Mr  City  Clerk  is  growing 
mad  with  despair  ;  Mrs  City  Clerk  is  well  upon  the  road  that 
Master  City  Clerk  has  followed.  Mr  City  Clerk  steals,  is 
caught,  is  imprisoned — consequences,  consequences  ;  another 
boat  wrecked.  Mrs  City  Clerk  does  not  hold  out  long, 
262 


MY  DEBT  OF  GRATITUDE  263 

follows  Master  City  Clerk — consequences,  consequences. 
Three  innocent  craft  smashed  up  because  the  housemaid 
left  the  dustpan  on  the  stairs." 

And  gratitude  impelled  me  to  write  and  thank  Mr  Hutchin- 
son  for  the  pleasure  he  had  given  me,  and  he  answered  in 
characteristic  fashion  : 


"  53  CROFTDOWN  ROAD, 
"HIGHGATE  ROAD,  N.W., 
"  December  i6th,  1908. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  think  you  are  amazingly  kind. 
I  think  it  was  so  uncommonly  good  of  you  to  write  to  me 
about  my  book.  I  have  had  some  very  gratifying  reviews, 
but  it  was  part  of  the  writers'  business  to  write  them,  and  I 
have  had  some  nice  letters  from  strangers,  but  those  are 
from  admiring  folk  to  whom  I  suppose  the  business  of 
writing  is  a  thing  apart  from  their  daily  lives.  But  it  is  a 
portion  of  your  life  and,  therefore,  I  think  it  was  so  good  of 
you  to  take  the  trouble  to  notice  a  stranger  engaged  in  the 
same  business.  Additional  to  this  to  me  are  the  kind  terms 
in  which  you  write  to  me,  and  to  me  coming  from  you,  I 
indeed  value  very  highly.  I  find  it  difficult  to  tell  you  how 
very  much  I  appreciate  your  letter  and  you  must  believe, 
I  thank  you  very,  very  warmly.  When  the  next  book  is 
written,  I  am  going  to  give  myself  the  great  pleasure  of 
sending  you  a  copy. 

"  This  is  a  very  funny  life  I  often  think,  full  of  tricks  and 
chances.  Two  days  ago,  yours  was  no  more  than  a  well- 
known  name  to  me.  To-day,  I  am  concerned  that  you  suffer 
from  sleeplessness.  It  is  the  result  of  your  kind  letter,  and 
gives  the  obvious  thought  that  this  would  be  a  nicer  world  if 
there  were  more  kindliness  such  as  this  you  have  shown  me, 
for  it  sets  up  a  chain  of  sympathy.  There  is  a  symposium 
in  the  current  '  Review  of  Reviews  '  on  sleep  and  remedies 
for  insomnia  and  perhaps  you  might  find  a  hint  or  so. 

"  I  had  considerable  pleasure  in  writing  my  story,  but  I 
think  it  has  given  me  no  pleasure  so  great  as  this  letter  from 


264  I  MYSELF 

you.     I  catch  myself  thinking  of  bits  and  relishing  the  fact, 
that  perhaps  you  enjoyed  them. 

"  Thank  you  and  again  thank  you. — Yours  sincerely, 

"A.  S.  HUTCHINSON" 

I  not  only  enjoyed  "  bits  "  but  every  line  of  the  book,  and  I 
have  read  it  twice  since  the  first  time  and  find  in  it  a  com- 
forting, sane  and  joyous  outlook  upon  life.  The  difference  in 
books  upon  the  mind,  is,  indeed,  as  great  as  the  difference  in 
people.  It  amazed  me  this  summer  when  we  were  in  the 
Apennines  to  find  that  Mr  Labouchere,  who  is  such  an  om- 
nivorous reader,  had  never  read  "  The  Golden  Age,"  that 
charming,  delightful  and  most  satisfying  book  by  dear 
Kenneth  Grahame.  Whenever  I  speak  of  him  in  connection 
with  "  The  Golden  Age  "  I  am  impelled  to  add  dear,  from  the 
affection  with  which  he  has  inspired  me.  In  America  he  is 
well  known,  but  his  warmest  admirer  is  Theodore  Roosevelt. 
When  I  told  the  then  President  on  New  Year's  Day  that  I 
knew  Kenneth  Grahame,  his  face  lighted  up  with  enthusiasm 
and  he  said,  "  Then  give  him  a  message  from  me.  Tell  him, 
if  he  does  not  come  to  America  and  make  me  a  visit  at  the 
White  House,  I  shall  create  an  International  War."  I  wrote 
Mr  Grahame  on  my  return,  and  he  had  moved  to  the  country, 
but  he  appreciated  the  warm-hearted  message  I  had  brought 
him  from  America. 

"  MAYFIELD, 

"  COOKHAM  DENE,  BERKSHIRE, 
"  ^th  August  1908. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — Thank  you  very  much  for  your 
letter  and  for  its  enclosure.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  receive 
the  President's  message.  Nothing  could  be  kinder  than  the 
way  he  has  expressed  himself  from  time  to  time.  He  was 
so  very  good  as  to  write  me  a  letter  some  little  time  ago, 
inviting  me  most  cordially  to  the  White  House,  and  it  was  a 
great  grief  to  me  that  iron  circumstances  were  too  strong. 

"  I  have  disposed  of  the  lease  of  my  Durham  Villa  house, 
and  this  is  our  only  address  at  present.  We  could  not  keep 


MY  DEBT  OF  GRATITUDE  265 

'  Mouse  '  in  town,  and  it  was  a  perpetual  bother  finding  him 
fresh  country  quarters  and  bad  in  principle  our  being 
separated  so  much.  He  is  very  happy  here  though  his 
thoughts  still  turn  to  the  golden  strand  at  Littlehampton. 
I  took  him  a  row  under  Quarry  Woods  the  other  day,  but  his 
highest  praise  was  that  it  was  something  like  Arundel. 

"  E.  is  picking  up  slightly  after  her  bad  peritonitis  in  the 
spring.  It  is  beautiful  here,  and  healthy,  and  high,  and 
invalids  are  supposed  to  reconstitute  themselves  here,  as  well 
as  anywhere. 

"  We  both  rather  wanted  reconstituting.  We  have  spent 
two  previous  summers  here,  and  I  knew  it  well  as  a  little 
boy. 

"  I  hope  you  and  Mr  O'Connor  are  both  keeping  fit  and 
well. 

"  With  kindest  regards  from  both  of  us, — Yours  very  truly, 

"  KENNETH  GRAHAME  " 

"  Dear '  Mouse  '  went  to  his  first  Theatre  last  winter  to  see 
'  Pinkie  and  the  Fairies  '  and  was,  I  heard,  enthralled  by  the 
Fairy  Queen  and  her  Court." 

And  there  are  such  a  number  of  writers  who  have  personally 
endeared  themselves  to  me  by  their  work.  Barrie  has  lovers 
all  over  the  world.  I  remember  that  one  of  his  plays — I  think, 
"  Little  Mary  "  with  its  wonderful  tenderness — appealed  to 
me  so  strongly  that  I  wrote  a  letter  of  congratulation  and 
signed  myself — Bessie  Barrie  O'Connor. 

And  he  was  quite  equal  to  the  occasion  when  he  answered  : 

"  LEINSTER  CORNER, 

"  LANCASTER  GATE,  W., 
"  October  28th,  Thursday. 

"  DEAR  MRS  BARRIE  O'CONNOR, — I  think  it  is  a  famous 
good  name  and  thank  you  very  heartily  for  your  letter.  I 
am  delighted  to  hear  you  like  the  play. — I  am,  Yours 
sincerely,  J.  M.  O'CONNOR  BARRIE  " 


266  I  MYSELF 

And  for  many  hours  of  breathless  interest  I  owe  Sir  Arthur 
Conan  Doyle  a  debt  of  gratitude — and  what  excellent,  excit- 
ing plays  he  has  written — I  was  staying  out  at  Hindhead  one 
year  with  Mrs  Labouchere,  and  wrote  Sir  Arthur  asking  him 
to  come  and  see  me  ;  in  answer  he  asked  us  to  his  charming 
place.  On  every  height  there  lies  repose,  and  his  house  on 
the  top  of  a  hill  looked  down  on  a  wonderful  purple  gorge. 

"  UNDERSHAW,  HINDHEAD, 
"  HASLEMERE. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  should  have  been  delighted  to 
come,  but  I  have  several  visitors  here,  and  mustn't  dis- 
appoint them. 

"  Will  you  come  across  on  Monday  afternoon  and  see  my 
Commando,  I  think  it  is  rather  unique  in  England. 

"  With  kind  regards, — Yours  very  truly, 

"  A.  CONAN  DOYLE  " 

And  we  went  over  one  afternoon,  and  I  made  acquaintance 
with  a  great  friend,  his  mighty  bull-dog,  who  examined  me 
critically  for  a  few  moments  and  then  licked  my  face  all  over, 
my  neck  and  even  behind  my  ears.  Sir  Arthur  said  I  was  the 
realization  of  the  dog's  dream :  that  for  years  he  had  been 
hoping  to  find  a  heart  leaping  to  his,  and  understanding  him, 
and  at  length  he  had  found  it  in  me.  His  appearance,  for- 
bidding and  terrorizing,  was  the  opposite  of  his  big  affection- 
ate love-craving  heart,  and  he  spent  his  days  in  grief  because 
people  were  afraid  of  him.  I  offered  him  a  home,  and  Sir 
Arthur  said,  "  Take  care,  he  may  arrive  one  morning,"  but  he 
never  did.  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well,  he  might  not  have  liked 
"  Mr  Phelan,"  my  little  Yorkshire  terrier  given  me  by  James 
D.  Phelan  of  San  Francisco,  and  named  for  him.  A  very 
wise  and  sweet  specimen  of  his  kind,  he  realizes  his  own 
limitations,  which  some  humans  never  do,  and  he  never 
attacks  other  dogs  or  runs  away,  for  he  knows  how  helplessly 
small  he  is.  The  only  fault  in  his  otherwise  quite  perfect 
character  is  his  effeminacy.  He  loves  silk  cushions  and  cats. 
If  other  dogs  are  about,  in  compliment  to  them  he  pretends 


PIOUS  COAXY   AT   HIS  PRAYERS 


MY  DEBT  OF  GRATITUDE  267 

to  be  cool  and  distant  to  cats,  but  if  alone  with  a  cat  he 
snuggles  into  the  same  basket  and  is  quite  happy.  He  has 
one  accomplishment,  he  can  shake  hands  beautifully  and 
will  give  first  one  paw  and  then  the  other  in  the  most 
fascinating  manner.  And  he  is  wonderfully  sympathetic. 
Lying  on  my  bed  one  day,  he  discovered  that  I  was  crying, 
and  after  licking  all  the  tears  off  my  face  he  then  gave  me 
his  paw.  And  in  all  his  amiable  sweet  little  life  Mr  Phelan 
has  never  done  or  said  an  ill-tempered  or  an  unamiable 
thing.  Though  once  he  told  a  lie.  Phelan  and  I  were  walking 
together  on  the  Brighton  Downs,  when  suddenly  he  gave  an 
ear-piercing  scream,  and  held  up  a  tiny  paw  in  apparently 
great  agony.  I  thought  he  had  stepped  on  a  thorn,  and  I 
carried  him  a  few  yards,  when  a  charming  toy  Pomeranian 
met  us  and  Phelan  leaped  out  of  my  arms  perfectly  cured — 
the  scamp,  he  was  tired  and  only  wanted  to  be  carried. 

Phelan's uncle,  James  Foster  (a  Grindley  wonder),  who  had 
nursed  me  so  tenderly  in  Scotland,  was  stolen,  and  Phelan, 
who  belonged  to  the  same  family,  was  given  me  as  a  con- 
solation. But  he  never  had  either  the  beauty,  or  the  wit, 
or  the  character  of  James  Foster,  who  gave  me  his  whole 
heart  until  I  sent  him  to  the  Veterinary  Surgeon  in  Edinburgh 
to  have  a  wart  taken  off  from  his  side,  and  ill  as  I  was,  he 
would  not  speak  to  me,  or  notice  me  for  a  week.  He  was 
even  smaller  than  Mr  Phelan,  but  he  had  a  wonderful  per- 
sonality, and  I  grieved  dreadfully  over  his  loss.  What 
terrible  punishments  I  would  give  to  dog-stealers,  for  they  not 
only  rob  your  pockets,  but  they  so  wound  your  affections. 
He  was  stolen  in  Chelsea  ;  while  he  was  walking  just  in  front 
of  the  house,  a  man  was  seen  to  pick  him  up,  button  his  coat 
about  him,  and  run  down  Tite  Street.  And  we  heard  after- 
wards that  he  had  been  shipped  to  America.  My  little 
faithful  sick-room  friend. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII 

MY  STRUGGLE  FOR  INDEPENDENCE 

"  A"  |  AHE  Lady  from  Texas,"  produced  at  Penley's  Theatre, 
was  one  of  the  bitterest  disappointments  of  my  life. 
I  wanted  success,  of  course,  but  money  above  all 
things.  I  haven't  a  penny  of  my  own,  and  absolute  depend- 
ence is  a  hurtful  position  for  a  proud  and  sensitive  woman. 
Independence  is  something  I've  longed  for  and  dreamed  of 
for  years.  To  be  able  to  earn  my  own  living,  to  eat  the  bread 
of  my  making,  has  been  the  goal  of  my  ambition,  and  to  this 
end  no  task  for  me  would  have  been  too  Herculean ;  but  Fate, 
my  unkind  stepmother,  has  not  only  discouraged,  but  has 
even  denied  me  work.  The  play  ran  only  four  weeks,  and 
lost  money.  I  believe  it  might  have  had  a  different  fate 
if  I  had,  in  the  beginning,  taken  the  advice  of  my  friends  and 
played  in  it  myself.  Not  that  Miss  Cheatham  was  not  good 
in  the  part ;  she  was  excellent,  better  possibly  than  I  with 
my  inexperience  could  have  been,  but  there  were  many  and 
varied  reasons  why  I  should  have  played  in  it — one  being,  that 
we  would  have  first  tried  it  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  provinces, 
and  in  this  way  rubbed  off  the  rough  corners,  improved  it, 
and  presented  it  in  a  different  aspect  to  the  critics,  who,  on 
the  whole,  were  terribly  severe  on  me;  but  I  bear  them  not  the 
slightest  ill-will,  always  standing  by  my  craft,  and  believing 
and  advocating  the  freedom  of  the  press.  When  the  play 
was  taken  off,  a  young  manager  offered  to  take  it  on  tour 
if  I  would  play  the  title  part.  He  said  that  with  my 
name  it  might  go  in  the  provinces.  The  dresses  were  new 
and  fresh,  the  caste  was  small,  and  he  was  sanguine  and 
thought  the  venture  worth  while.  I  was  more  than  doubtful 
m 


269 

of  my  ability  to  fill  the  r61e.  I  am  horribly  nervous  of 
appearing  in  public  in  any  capacity,  but  I  could  not  bear 
the  idea  of  my  poor  bantling  dying  without  an  effort  of 
resuscitation,  and  I  proposed  myself  to  rehearse  on  ap- 
proval, and  if  I  was  impossible  to  retire  in  favour  of  an 
understudy. 

I  worked  with  enthusiasm,  taking  every  suggestion,  and 
going  over  my  part  again  and  again,  until  the  Stage  Manager 
thought  me  possible,  and  we  opened  at  Leamington.  It 
was  a  fearful  ordeal.  When  the  curtain  went  up,  I  stood 
rooted  to  the  stage,  and  could  scarcely  hear  myself  speak, 
and  I  dared  not  look  at  the  audience  ;  but  gradually  a  little 
confidence  came  back  to  me,  and  I  struggled  through  the 
three  acts  at  any  rate  without  breaking  down.  Clement 
Scott  kindly  came  down  for  the  first  night,  and  never  was 
there  a  more  encouraging,  uplifting,  inspiring  friend.  The 
papers  were  very  kind,  and  the  next  week  we  went  to  Dublin. 
It  was  there,  on  the  second  or  third  night  of  the  week,  that 
I  suddenly  felt  happy,  at  home,  and  completely  at  ease  on 
the  stage.  From  that  moment,  I  really  loved  acting,  and 
lived  only  for  the  night.  When  the  notices  said  that  I  made 
"  the  public  forgive  Mrs  O'Fish  Withers  for  her  uncon- 
ventionalities  and  even  vulgarities,  and  love  her  in  spite  of 
them,"  my  cup  of  bliss  was  full,  for  I  felt  the  character  was 
understood  as  I  was  trying  with  utter  inexperience  to  convey 
it.  And  I  worked  harder  than  ever. 

After  five  weeks,  we  had  a  week  out,  and  the  dresses  were 
all  sent  to  the  cleaners,  coming  back  fresh  and  lovely,  and 
we  opened  in  Edinburgh.  I  felt  really  like  a  sure  enough 
actress  when  the  public  applauded  me  before  I  said  a  word, 
and  the  papers  were  quite  wonderfully  kind.  This  was 
on  Monday.  That  night  I  had  a  violent  chill  and  very 
threatening  pains,  which  seemed  premonitory  of  peritonitis. 
My  temperature  was  well  up  the  next  morning,  and  that  night 
my  face  was  scarlet  with  fever,  but  I  managed  somehow  to 
crawl  over  to  the  theatre,  to  get  dressed  and  to  play.  I  had 
always  heard  that  a  real  actress  played  whether  well  or  ill, 
and  certainly  I  was  ill  enough. 


270  I  MYSELF 

The  next  morning  a  doctor  was  called  in,  and  my  tem- 
perature had  gone  up  to  104,  where  it  remained  with  varying 
steadiness  for  weeks,  and  one  blissful  day — for  then  I  lost 
consciousness — it  reached  106.  T.  P.  was  telegraphed  for 
and  came  ;  we  had  Sir  Halliday  Croome  in  consultation,  who 
pronounced  it  a  well-developed  case  of  peritonitis,  with 
internal  haemorrhage,  and  left  me  to  the  local  doctor.  This 
was  the  last  week  in  October,  and  I  left  Edinburgh  only  the 
day  before  New  Year.  Nine  weeks  of  mortal  sickness  ;  but 
my  splendid  constitution  pulled  me  through ;  and  stretched 
in  a  sleeping  berth,  and  clothed  in  a  flannel  dressing-gown,  I 
was  able  to  travel  to  London  on  December  3ist.  T.  P.,  who 
was  busy,  could  only  spare  a  few  weeks  from  London  and  had 
returned  there — so  the  rest  of  the  time  I  battled  with  death 
alone.  There  is  no  disease  on  earth  so  painful  as  peritonitis  ; 
only  one  position  is  possible,  lying  on  the  back  with  the  knees 
drawn  up,  as  to  stretch  out  the  legs  is  unspeakable  agony.  A 
pillow  is  put  under  the  knees  to  hold  them  up,  but  even  then, 
after  days  carried  in  this  fashion,  they  ache  to  drop  off.  My 
sweet  Scotch  nurse  used  to  hold  them  up  for  me  until  I  could 
see  her  turn  pale  with  fatigue.  And  the  long  purgatorial 
nights  of  active  bodily  pain,  while  the  brain  acted  with 
superhuman  clarity,  were  more  terrible  than  Dante  ever 
invented  in  his  "  Inferno."  Was  it  not  Sydney  Smith  who 
said,  "  The  view  from  the  horizontal  position  is  so  different 
from  the  perpendicular  "  ? — and  Heaven  knows  it  is. 

And  when  my  fever  raged  and  I  could  sleep,  again  and 
again  a  dream  came  to  me  of  a  garden  in  the  South. 

"  There's  not  a  flower,  there's  not  a  tree, 
In  this  old  garden  where  we  sit, 
But  what  some  fragrant  memory 
Is  closed  and  folded  up  in  it. 
To-night  the  dog-rose  smells  as  wild, 
As  fresh,  as  when  I  was  a  child." 

It  was  always  the  same  dream,  and  the  same  dear  garden — 
just  at  the  gateway  a  wonderful  avenue  of  tallest  cypress 
trees  began,  and  finished  in  the  feathery  cedars  of  Lebanon. 


MY  STRUGGLE  FOR  INDEPENDENCE     271 

And  at  the  end  of  the  avenue  was  a  water  garden  of  diamond- 
shaped  and  octagonal  marble  pools,  and  all  around  and 
between  them  grew  oleander  trees,  weighed  down  by  blooms 
of  deepest  pink,  and  white,  and  lemon  colour,  and  paler 
pink,  and  all  the  air  was  bitter  sweet  with  the  scent,  and  there 
were  statues  standing  here  and  there,  very  old,  some  with 
blunted  features  from  age  and  damp,  but  all  of  them  light 
and  graceful,  and  there  were  arbours  of  rich  datura,  and  the 
purple  wistaria  and  great  beds  of  phlox,  and  dahlias,  and 
thick  branched  lilac  trees,  and  musky  honeysuckle  growing 
thickly  about  the  trunks  of  the  olive.  And  the  lilies  stood  in 
long,  straight  rows  made  whiter  by  a  background  of  scarlet 
pomegranates,  and  hollyhocks  and  spicy  pinks,  and  purple 
and  white  and  pink  larkspur,  and  beds  of  four  o'clocks, 
and  scarlet  salvia,  and  sweet  william,  and  crepe  myrtle,  and 
red  lilies  and  cyclamen,  all  crowded  each  other,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  garden  a  little  busy,  noisy  stream  ran,  with  giant 
fig-trees  growing  on  its  banks,  and  every  once  in  a  while  the 
ripe  fruit  fell,  and  made  a  little  splash  in  the  clear  water,  and 
the  dog-roses  and  the  crimson  rambler,  and  the  cloth-of-gold 
roses  all  climbed  and  hid  the  wall  in  brilliant  sheets  of  colour, 
and  an  old  house  stood  very  far  back  in  the  garden  and  the 
hill  sloped  down  in  terraces  covered  in  rich  grapes,  and  olive 
trees,  and  the  blue,  blue  of  the  South  sky  above  it  all,  and 
when  night  came  the  nightingales  sang.  And  then  I  awoke 
to  grinding  pain  and  looked  out  on  Calton  Hill  and  the 
snows  of  the  north. 

As  the  days  went  by,  and  I  was  fairly  eaten  up  by  fever, 
lying  hour  after  hour  by  myself  looking  over  my  whole  life 
past  and  future,  the  psychological  moment  for  death  seemed 
to  me  to  have  arrived,  and  I  did  most  earnestly  pray  God  to 
let  me  die.  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  the  changelessness 
of  death.  It  is  the  changefulness  of  life  that  fills  me  with 
apprehension  and  despair.  To  me  there  are  no  more  com- 
forting words  than  these  : 

"  Oh,  cool  and  perfect,  peaceful  death, 
Without  one  painful  sigh  or  catching  in  of  breath." 


272  I  MYSELF 

And  I  felt  a  whole  eternity  of  sleep  would  not  have  been  too 
much  to  rest  my  hot  and  tired  heart  and  restless  brain. 

But  I  rarely  slept,  and  with  a  book  propped  on  my  breast, 
I  read  day  and  night,  and  the  effort  of  getting  my  mind  fixed 
on  my  book  and  away  from  acute  and  continual  pain  was  so 
great,  that  whole  chapters  of  "  Anna  Karenina "  and 
"  Kim  " — oh,  that  great  white  road  ! — and  the  poems  of 
Burns,  are  absolutely  photographed  in  my  memory,  which 
ordinarily,  except  in  spots,  is  a  sieve.  And  when  I  could 
read  no  longer,  I  comforted  myself  with  what  odd  verses 
I  could  remember,  whispering  them  to  myself.  This  com- 
forting plea  recurred  to  me  often  and  often  : 

It  cannot  be  that  this  poor  life  shall  end  us  ! 

God's  words  are  truthful  and  His  ways  are  just. 
He  would  not  here  to  sin  and  sorrow  send  us, 

And  then  blot  out  our  souls  with  "  dust  to  dust." 
Saving  our  clay,  and  back  to  nature  giving 
Smothering  our  soul  ere  it  hath  had  its  living, — 
It  cannot  be  ! 

It  cannot  be  that  One  so  just  and  perfect 

Would  make  a  perfect  universe,  and  plan 
The  star  of  all  should  be  at  last  imperfect, 

Life,  yet  leave  that  life  half -lived  in  wretched  man. 
Forever  lives  the  gross — the  dead  material — 
Forever  dies  the  life — the  spark  imperal  ? 
It  cannot  be  ! 

It  cannot  be,  for  life  is  more  than  living  ; 

It  cannot  be,  for  death  is  more  than  dream. 
Think  ye  to  clod,  God  daily  life  is  giving, 

Yet  from  the  grave  shut  out  the  grander  beam  ? 
Night  is  but  day  ere  it  hath  had  its  dawning, 
Death  a  brief  night,  and  waiteth  for  the  morning, 
Which  soon  shall  be  ! 


CHAPTER   XLIX 

THE  VALLEY  OF   DEATH 

"  Dusk  upon  the  river, 
And  dusk  upon  the  land — 
But  oh  the  sorrow  in  my  heart, 
Too  deep  to  understand  ! 

Who  of  my  kin  is  dead,  my  heart, 

That  you  should  mourn  them  so  ? 

Or  is  it  that  you  died  yourself 

A  thousand  years  ago  ?  "  DA  COSTA 

MY  doctor  believed  in  the  old-fashioned  method  of 
treating  the  disease  with  opium,  and  I  took  vast 
quantities  which  scarcely  eased  the  pain.     T.  P. 
sent  me  a  letter  every  day,  and  wrote  from  time  to  time 
articles  about  me  in  "  M.  A.  P."    He  said  : 

"  Finally,  I  had  an  opportunity  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  to  see  the  stage  from  the  inside,  and  it  was  a  very  satis- 
factory experience.  The  company  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
that  Mrs  O'Connor  had  around  her  were  like  a  family  rather 
than  a  mere  chance  association  of  people  with  no  tie  but 
that  of  business,  and  this  made  their  travels,  labours  and 
experiences  singularly  agreeable.  To  Mrs  O'Connor  they 
all  acted  with  signal  consideration.  When  she  was  rehearsing 
for  her  first  appearance  on  the  stage,  there  was  not  one  of  them 
that  did  not  put  their  experience  at  her  disposal,  and  I  am 
told  that  the  night  of  her  debut  they  all  were  trembling  with 
nervousness  for  her.  She  was  indeed  the  only  person  fearless 
and  self-confident.  When  she  came  through  this  ordeal 
triumphantly  they  acclaimed  her  with  all  that  readiness 
18  3« 


274  I  MYSELF 

of  kind  emotion  which  is  the  characteristic  of  their  pro- 
fession— a  profession  which  brings  out  the  good  and  the 
simple  and  the  sympathetic  in  human  nature,  as  well,  of 
course,  as  its  rivalries  and  hatred.  They  all — I  may  say, 
perhaps,  who  shouldn't — were  profoundly  attached  to  the 
authoress  of  the  play — as  indeed  is  everybody  who  comes 
to  know  her  sweet,  gentle  and  beautiful  nature." 

On  my  lonely  bed  of  pain  to  read  these  paragraphs  from 
T.  P.'s  ever  facile  pen  gave  me  food  for  reflection  and  a 
feeling  of  deepest  sadness.  It  is  the  woman  with  "  the  sweet 
and  the  gentle  nature  "  who  is  generally  called  upon  for 
life's  supremest  sacrifice — renunciation  ;  while  the  passionate 
woman  of  ardent  temperament,  selfish  and  exigeante,  gets 
and  keeps  what  is  best  in  life. 

My  friends  wrote  constantly,  and  my  room  was  literally 
a  bower  of  flowers  arriving  every  day  from  London,  but  the 
slow  days  dragged  on  like  links  in  a  convict's  chain.  And 
towards  the  middle  of  December,  I  felt  myself  growing 
gradually  weaker,  and  hour  by  hour  slipping  away.  Some- 
how, crossing  the  dark  river,  although  I  don't  mind  the  other 
side,  without  a  word  of  farewell  to  anybody  at  the  very 
brink,  seemed  bitter,  so  the  doctor  telegraphed  to  T.  P.  to 
come.  He  was  just  concluding  a  business  matter  of  much 
importance. and  thought  the  journey  unnecessary,  and  was  a 
little  impatient  with  me  at  first.  He  said,  "  American 
women  were  imaginative,  and  unnecessarily  nervous ;  that 
he  found  me  really  looking  better  than  he  expected ;  that  I 
should  have  more  courage  " — but  after  his  dinner,  when  he 
came  to  say  good-night,  the  burning  heat  of  my  hand 
frightened  him,  and  he  sent  for  the  doctor,  who  said  that  I 
was  very  ill,  but  he  thought  I  would  certainly  live  until  the 
morning.  T.  P.  came  back  after  speaking  to  the  doctor,  and 
though  I  begged  him  not  to  stay,  knowing  how  sad  a  sick- 
room is  to  him,  he  insisted  upon  it,  and  sat  down  by  my 
bedside  to  wait  for  the  morning.  I  believed  I  really  was 
going  to  die,  and  I  felt  as  gently  toward  death  as  though  a 
friend  was  softly  opening  the  door,  and  I  wondered  : 


THE  VALLEY  OF  DEATH  275 

"  If  I  should  die  to-night, 

E'en  hearts  estranged  would  turn  once  more  to  me, 
Recalling  other  days  remorsefully  ; 
The  eyes  that  chill  me  with  averted  glance 
Would  look  upon  me  as  of  yore,  perchance, 
And  soften  in  the  old  familiar  way 
(For  who  could  war  with  dumb,  unconscious  clay  ?) 
So  I  might  rest  of  all  forgiven  to-night ! 

Oh  friends,  I  pray  to-night, 

Keep  not  your  kisses  for  my  dead,  cold  brow, 

The  way  is  lonely,  let  me  feel  them  now. 

Think  gently  of  me  ;  I  am  travel-worn  : 

My  faltering  feet  are  pierced  with  many  a  thorn  ; 

Forgive,  0  hearts  estranged,  forgive,  I  plead  ! 

When  dreamless  rest  is  mine,  I  shall  not  need 

The  tenderness  for  which  I  long  to-night." 

The  theatre  where  I  had  so  hopefully  and  gaily  trotted 
about  the  stage  was  exactly  opposite  the  hotel,  and  there 
Dick  Whittington  and  his  Cat  were  disporting  themselves, 
and  that  night  the  whole  of  the  chorus  were  invited  by  some 
young  men  to  the  hotel  to  supper  in  a  room  very  near  mine. 
When  the  noisy  songs  began,  T.  P.  went  downstairs  to  the 
gay  company  and  begged  for  me,  telling  them  my  very  life 
depended  on  a  little  sleep — indeed,  I  might  die  at  any 
moment  during  the  night.  He  prayed  them  to  be  quiet, 
but  they  were,  if  anything,  noisier  than  before.  The  pro- 
prietor said  he  could  not  have  his  guests  interfered  with, 
and  I  fully  expected  my  soul  to  depart  boisterously  to  the 
tune  of  "  He's  a  jolly  good  fellow." 

At  daylight  only  did  the  riotous  revellers  go  home.  In 
the  morning  the  doctor  came,  and  again  Sir  Halliday  Croome 
was  called  into  consultation.  He  was  surprised  to  find  me 
still  in  Edinburgh,  thinking  I  had  got  well  and  gone  back 
to  London.  This  time  he  seemed  anxious,  and  said  I  must 
be  carried  to  a  nursing  home  at  once,  and  he  would  himself 
send  an  ambulance  and  two  nurses  to  fetch  me  as  soon  as 
possible. 

I  was  greatly  opposed  to  the  move,  being  quite  indifferent 


276  I  MYSELF 

then  to  everything,  but  at  five  o'clock  the  ambulance 
arrived,  and  two  nice  young  nurses  came  up  to  take  me  away. 
T.  P.  could  not  bear  to  see  me  in  an  ambulance — it  would 
have  filled  him  with  depression — so  I  made  him  go  out  to 
visit  friends.  The  two  ambulance  men  picked  me  up  in  my 
nightgown,  rolled  me  in  blankets,  strapped  me  on  a  stretcher, 
and  we  began  our  downward  march.  My  room  was  in  the 
third  storey,  and  every  step  gave  me  pains  like  knives.  A 
number  of  people  had  assembled  before  the  door  to  see  me 
off.  I  had  been  making  such  a  long  fight  for  life  that  many 
knew  of  my  illness.  The  crowd  parted  silently  to  let  me 
pass.  The  nurse  threw  the  blanket  over  my  face,  and  some 
pitying  soul  dropped  a  little  penny  bunch  of  violets  on  what 
I  thought  was  my  "  mattress-grave."  The  men  shoved  the 
stretcher  on  a  long  narrow  shelf,  and  I  felt  without  volition 
cold  weak  tears  running  down  my  cheeks.  The  ambulance 
driver  turned  to  see  that  I  was  all  right.  He  had  no  pocket- 
handkerchief,  poor  man,  so  he  doubled  up  his  kindly  fist  and 
with  it  wiped  away  my  tears,  saying,  "  Never  mind,  Mrs 
O'Connor  dear,  I  feel  it  an  honour  to  have  carried  you 
downstairs." 

The  ruling  passion  is  strong  in  death,  and  I  wanted  dread- 
fully to  say,  "  Did  you  see  the  '  Lady  from  Texas  '  ?  "  but 
a  solid  lump  in  my  throat  kept  me  from  speaking.  The  nurses 
then  took  their  places,  and  we  began  our  slow  march  of  a  mile 
or  more — to  me  it  seemed  a  great  distance.  When  they 
lifted  me  from  the  ambulance  the  stars  were  shining,  and  as  I 
looked  up  at  them  I  bade  them  a  silent  good-bye.  It  was 
many  weeks  since  I  had  seen  them,  and  I  never  expected 
to  see  them  again. 


CHAPTER  L 

THE  NURSING  HOME 

"  Blessed  are  the  merciful " 

THE  nursing  home,  sweet  and  clean  and  cheerful,  and 
full  of  air,  was  very  different  from  the  hotel.  When 
I  was  carried  upstairs,  I  gathered  from  one  of  the 
nurses  that  I  was  at  the  very  portal  of  death  with  the  door 
wide  open.  The  peritonitis  had  abated,  but  I  was  suffering 
from  acute  opium  poisoning,  and  from  my  waist  down  I  was 
quite  paralysed.  For  weeks  I  had  been  dripping  with  night 
sweats,  that  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  rain  ;  five  or  six 
times  during  the  night  the  nurse  had  changed  my  nightgown ; 
and  I  had  become  so  thin  my  poor  bones  were  comfortable 
only  on  air  cushions. 

Very  drastic  remedies  were  given  me — among  them  doses 
of  belladonna  in  such  quantities  that  I  became  quite  blind, 
and  it  made  me  so  hot  and  nervous  it  was  with  difficulty  I 
restrained  myself  from  wild  screams  of  hysteria.  My  opium 
was  suddenly  left  off,  and  I  could  have  no  fluids,  or  water, 
only  small  sips  of  brandy  and  soda,  and  a  mouthful  of  fish 
or  a  morsel  of  toast. 

For  two  nights  the  angelic  night-nurse  sat  by  me  dipping 
her  hand  in  iced  water,  and  then  slowly  rubbing  my  fore- 
head ;  but  for  this  soothing  process  I  could  not  have  remained 
quietly  in  bed. 

With  a  complete  reversal  of  my  treatment,  in  ten  days  I 
was  sitting  up  and  begging  to  go  home.  On  Christmas  Day, 
T.  P.  came  to  have  a  Christmas  dinner  with  me  at  the  side  of 
my  bed,  and  on  December  3ist  we  left  for  London.  The 
doctor  was  terribly  opposed  to  my  travelling  so  soon,  but  I 


278  I  MYSELF 

longed  so  desperately  for  my  own  surroundings  and  belong- 
ings that  finally  he  consented  to  my  going  if  I  promised  to 
lie  down  all  the  way,  and  get  into  a  wheeled  chair,  and  from 
there  to  the  carriage.  Sir  Halliday  Croome  considered  my 
recovery  a  miracle,  and  from  the  moment  I  got  home,  I  began 
to  mend,  and  was  soon  more  cheerful — but  life  has  never 
been  quite  the  same  careless  affair  to  me  since  those  many 
weeks  of  a  horizontal  position,  when  through  exceeding  pain 
I  faced  the  great  problem  of  existence,  and  put  out  a  friendly 
hand  to  death,  only  to  have  his  dark  face  turn  aside,  and  be 
sent  out  to  fight  the  battle  of  life  once  more. 

Perhaps  the  prayers  said  for  me  in  the  Convents  by 
innocent  children,  and  by  my  good  friend  the  Chief  Rabbi 
Adler,  may  have  helped  my  recovery — at  any  rate  I  expect 
now  to  reach  a  quite  astonishing  age  of  longevity.  When  I 
came  back  to  London,  what  kind  letters  awaited  me — among 
them  a  letter  from  Justin  M'Carthy  : 

"  ASHLEY  DENE. 
"  WESTGATE-ON-SEA, 
"  Jan.  8th  1902. 

"  DEAREST  BESSIE, — I  must  send  you  a  line  to  express  my 
heartfelt  delight  on  reading  the  good  news  that  you  are  at  last 
able  to  return  to  your  London  home,  and  that  you  have  borne 
the  journey  well.  May  your  complete  recovery  come  soon, 
to  the  relief  and  joy  of  all  who  love  you. — Ever  your 
affectionate  friend,  JUSTIN  M'CARTHY 

"  Charlotte  sends  her  love." 

What  a  wonderful  recovery  Justin  M'Carthy  made  himself 
after  his  long  and  terrible  illness  in  London.  It  must  have 
been  due  to  the  love  and  the  nursing  of  Charlotte  M'Carthy, 
one  of  the  noblest  and  most  devoted  daughters  I  have  ever 
seen.  She  was  a  very  witty,  agreeable  woman,  she  had  lived 
in  London  all  her  life,  and  had  a  large  circle  of  appreciative 
friends,  and  yet  she  gave  everything  up,  went  to  the  country 
to  live  on  account  of  Justin's  health,  and  was  most  cheerful 
and  happy  in  making  her  father's  life  hers.  I  suppose 


THE  NURSING  HOME  279 

sacrifice  for  a  woman  with  the  knowledge  that  she  is  entirely 
necessary  to  the  comfort  and  well-being  of  some  one  she  loves, 
always  means  happiness.  Until  women  are  educated  not  to 
live  entirely  through  their  emotions  they  must  live  through 
the  people  they  love,  and  it  is  sad,  for  they  often  fail  us. 

I  felt  it  so  kind  in  Mr  (now  Sir  Henry)  Lucy  to  write  me, 
knowing  how  busy  a  man  he  is,  and  I  kept  his  letters, 
written  by  Mrs  Lucy,  the  kind  secretary  : 

"  WHITE  THORN, 

"  HYTHE,  KENT, 
"  ^th  January  1902. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — We  were  very  glad  to  hear  better 
news  of  you.  It  must  have  been  very  hard  to  have  been 
shut  up  in  Edinburgh,  sick  and  in  a  strange  room,  with  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  other  desirable 
people  out  of  town. 

"  I  hear  you  are  coming  south.  If  you  chance  to  select 
Folkestone  for  a  place  of  convalescence  we  shall  hope  to  see 
you  here  during  one  of  our  flying  visits  in  the  Parliamentary 
session.  Please  do  not  forget  to  let  us  know  where  you  are 
and  how  you  are  when  you  settle  down. 

"  The  kind  secretary  joins  me  in  affectionate  regards, — 
Yours  sincerely, 

"  HENRY  W.  LUCY  " 

I  wonder  if  I  had  left  Edinburgh  as  I  expected,  by  the 
gate  of  death,  after  my  little  much  enjoyed  triumph 
there — 

"  But  none  shall  triumph  a  whole  life  through, 
For  death  is  one,  and  the  fates  are  three. 
At  the  door  of  life,  by  the  gates  of  breath, 
There  are  worse  things  waiting  for  men  than  death." 

If  I  had  met  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 
I  would  have  tried  to  speak  with  Sir  Walter  first,  because  I 
was  brought  up  to  love  him.  The  chivalry  of  the  South  came 
from  him.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  is  a  great  admiration, 


280  I  MYSELF 

but  has  never  excited  the  tender  affection  in  me  of  "  the  stout 
blunt  carle  " — as  Sir  Walter  called  himself.  There  are  some 
people  to  be  loved  at  first  sight.  Sir  Walter  Scott  must  have 
been  one  of  them  and  Robbie  Burns  another.  The  literature 
and  history  of  Scotland  have  always  had  a  peculiar  fascina- 
tion for  the  South.  Carlyle  is  another  author  greatly  read, 
and  Whistler,  who  was  typically  American,  never  painted 
any  portrait  so  fine  as  that  of  Carlyle.  It  is  a  great  piece  of 
work.  I  saw  it  first  in  Edinburgh  and  it  seemed  to  me, 
seeing  it  unexpectedly,  to  be  the  living  man.  And  even 
Sargent,  that  great  artist,  has  never  painted  a  finer  or  more 
characteristic  portrait.  I  do  not  set  myself  up  to  be  a  critic  of 
art,  but  some  things  are  very  obvious.  From  the  beginning 
of  his  career  Sargent  was  a  great  artist.  Mrs  Labouchere 
has  a  letter  from  me  written  twenty- three  years  ago,  begging 
her  to  have  Mr  Labouchere,  Dora  and  herself  painted  by 
Sargent.  He  was  always  kind.  This  letter  was  written  to 
me  now  a  very  long  time  ago  : 

"  i  RUE  TROUCHET, 

"  PARIS, 
"April,  -Lst. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  hope  you  will  go  to  my  studio 
and  take  your  son,  although  I  won't  be  there  to  do  you  the 
honour,  but  perhaps  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  come  again 
when  I  return. 

"  The  picture  of  Lady  Macbeth  is  still  at  the  studio  until 
the  I5th,  when  it  goes  to  the  New  Gallery,  and  I  should  like 
you  to  see  it  in  the  studio  as  there  never  is  any  telling  what  a 
picture  will  look  like  at  an  exhibition. 

"  You  really  amuse  me,  by  saying  that  perhaps  I  will  not 
remember  you,  and  there  is  a  quaint  joke  on  my  side,  for  you 
taxed  me  at  Parsons'  studio  with  vagueness,  and  not  keeping 
engagements,  and  I  weakly  apologized — my  bewilderment. 
You  were  thinking  of  Reinhart,  and  then  I  remember  the 
circumstance  of  several  years  ago,  when  you  invited  Reinhart 
to  call,  and  enjoyed  the  comedy  of  errors  enormously.  The 
facts  are  that  I  had  only  seen  you  once  and  can  draw  your 


THE  NURSING  HOME  281 

likeness  from  memory,  and  that  Reinhart  and  I  are  one 
formless  and  unreliable  monster  in  your  recollection,  but 
when  I  return  to  London,  which  will  be  in  May,  I  will  call  and 
try  to  disentangle  myself. — Very  truly  yours, 

"JOHN  S.  SARGENT" 

I  wish  now  I  had  asked  him  to  paint  a  portrait  of  myself 
if  only  from  memory,  but  there  was  no  one  who  particularly 
wanted  it.  Now  I  have  an  adorable  little  love  in  whose  long, 
lashed  eyes  it  would  be  lovely.  He  one  day  told  me  he 
wanted  a  picture  of  me,  and  I  said,  "  Oh,  no,  damma  is  too 
old  and  ugly,"  whereupon  his  eyes  flashed  and  he  said, 
"  Damma  is  not  ugly,  not  a  single  bit  of  her  is  ugly," — and  I 
determined  then  and  there  always  to  look  my  best  in  those 
young,  beautiful,  and  starlike  eyes.  No  one  who  has  seen 
can  ever  forget  them, — even  George  Meredith  was  impressed 
by  their  singular  beauty,  and  when  I  wrote  to  ask  if  I  might 
buy  that  wonderful  photograph  of  himself,  taken  by  Hollyer, 
he  wrote  me  in  answer  : 

"  Box  HILL,  DORKING, 
"  April  2Qth,  1908. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — Here  is  a  Bluebeard's  reply  to  you. 
No  !  The  permission  for  Hollyer  to  sell  is  not  to  be  granted. 
It  might  lead  to  the  appearance  of  a  singularly  modest  man 
in  shop  windows  between  a  bishop  and  a  specimen  of  tarnished 
silver,  having  the  charm  of  the  metal  and  its  attractive 
disfigurement.  But  I  will  send  to  Hollyer  for  copies,  and 
beg  you,  with  your  enthusiast,  to  accept  them.  Is  it  fair 
of  a  grandmother  to  give  her  beautiful  eyes  to  male  infants  ? 
Women  bearing  the  darts  in  their  breasts  complain  of 
treachery.  We  will  hope  that  the  younger  Howard  will  be 
conscientious  in  the  use  he  makes  of  his  grandmother's  gift." 
— Most  truly  yours,  GEORGE  MEREDITH  " 


CHAPTER   LI 

THE  LITTLE  JOYS  OF  LIFE 

The  little  joys  of  life  must  twinkle  like  small  stars,  and  illumine  the 
lives  of  those  whose  background  is  one  of  sorrow. 

I  AM  taking  a  course  of  Herbert  Spencer,  hoping  he 
may  give  me  the  peace  he  has  given  to  so  many  others. 
And  I  try,  and  succeed  very  often,  to  make  a  joy  out 
of  many  little  things  of  life.  If  a  friend  sends  me  a  bunch  of 
roses,  that  is  a  joy.  If  Helen  brings  me,  as  she  so  often  does, 
a  pot  of  mignonette,  that  is  a  joy.  If  Kathleen  O'Moore 
makes  a  fairy-like  darn  on  a  beloved  but  elderly  blouse,  that  is 
a  joy.  When  I  visit  those  twenty-five  years  married  lovers, 
that  is  a  joy.  When  my  grandson,  brave  and  manly  in  his 
four  years,  comes  in  my  bedroom  in  the  early  morning  and 
says  patronisingly,  "  Good  mornin',  little  dam,"  and  kisses  me 
a  dozen  times,  that  is  more  than  joy.  And  how  well  he  knows 
his  power,  the  scamp.  A  friend  met  him  not  long  ago  in  the 
park  and  said  to  him,  "  Does  your  Damma  love  you  ?  " 
And  he  answered,  "  She  woshups  me."  And  indeed  I  do. 
For  anything  more  beautiful  or  alluring  or  sweet  never  lived 
upon  this  earth  than  my  little  love.  A  year  ago,  when  he 
was  only  three  years  old,  we  were  staying  with  a  friend  in 
Brighton,  whose  husband  is  paralysed,  and  I  was  advising 
him  to  try  the  Christian  Science  principles — to  say,  "  I  will 
walk  and  I  can  walk,"  and  just  walk.  He  tried  the  plan, 
took  one  or  two  steps,  wavered  a  little  bit,  and  fell  rather 
heavily.  He  was  describing  the  fall  to  Boysey,  and  he  said, 
"  I  tried  and  tried  to  walk  and  then  it  was  terrible.  I  fell !  " 
"  Good  God,"  said  the  baby,  "  a  accident !  "  And  he  was 
so  concerned  and  sympathetic. 


I'M   A   SOLDIER   OF   THE   KING" 


THE  LITTLE  JOYS  OF  LIFE  283 

When  he  was  two  years  old,  and  just  after  he  had  begun  to 
say  his  prayers,  his  Nannie  said  to  me,  "  He  is  very  good  now, 
you  know,  and  says  his  prayers  every  night.  He  is  a  per- 
fect little  diplomatist  and  always  ready  to  take  advantage 
of  every  situation."  So  when  I  said,  "  I'll  hear  his  prayers 
to-night,"  he  said  to  his  Nannie,  "  Well,  if  I  say  my  prayers 
to  Damma  can  I  say  them  with  my  eyes  open  ?  "  His  nurse 
said  he  could,  so  arranging  himself  in  his  crib,  with  his  little 
hands  clasped  together  and  his  big,  dark  eyes  wide  open,  he 
turned  to  me  and  called,  "  Ready,  Damma ! "  and  the 
prayers  began.  Some  time  ago,  he  asked  me  what  had 
become  of  a  man  who  died — a  man  who  was  drowned — and 
I  said,  "  He  has  gone  to  heaven."  He  said,  "  My  heaven  ?  " 
I  said,  "  I  didn't  know  that  you  had  a  private  heaven,  but  he 
has  gone  to  heaven."  He  said,  "  Tell  me  what  it  is  like." 
So  I  began  a  description  of  a  heaven  where  there  were  whole 
avenues  of  Christmas  trees  filled  with  toys,  and  cakes,  and 
live  parrots  that  came  when  they  were  called,  and  there  were 
fluffy  toy  dogs  who  became  real  dogs  when  they  were  taken 
off  the  tree,  and  angels  handed  down  the  toys  and  played 
the  most  delicious  music  on  harps — and  altogether  the  picture 
struck  him  as  being  so  delightful  that  he  said,  "  I  want  to  go 
to  heaven  now  at  once.  Do  you  understand,  at  once  ?  " 
I  said,  "  But  you  have  to  die  first,  and  you  don't  want  to 
leave  your  mother,  do  you,  and  your  Daddy  and  Damma  ?  " 
He  said,  "  But  we  can  all  die  together,  and  all  go  to  heaven 
at  once." 

His  Nannie  had  him  photographed  in  his  Guardsman's 
uniform,  and  when  I  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the 
pictures,  he  said,  "  I  think  they  are  the  sweetest  soldiers  I 
ever  saw."  I  said,  "  You  know  you  are  an  American,  and 
this  is  an  English  uniform."  He  said,  "  I'm  not,  I'm  a 
Union  Jack,  a  soldier  of  the  King."  And  I  know  one  thing, 
if  all  the  King's  soldiers  were  such  loves  there  would  never 
be  any  wars. 

Last  winter  among  the  many  games  he  elected  to  play  with 
me  was  one  called  "  Burning  Kisses."  I  had  been  writing 
all  the  morning,  and  there  were  a  good  many  torn  scraps  in 


284  I  MYSELF 

my  paper  basket,  and  with  every  scrap  of  paper  that  he  threw 
in  the  fire  and  saw  burnt  up  he  gave  me  a  kiss — and  I  am  sure 
they  are  the  purest  and  the  tenderest  burning  kisses  that  ever 
woman  in  this  world  has  received.  Ah,  my  little  love,  if  all 
burning  kisses  were  as  sweet  and  innocent  as  yours,  how 
much  easier  and  happier  life  would  be,  how  many  tragedies 
avoided  !  So  life,  if  we  cultivate  pleasure  in  small  things, 
can  never  be  hopeless,  but  sometimes  it  is  very  sad. 


CHAPTER  LII 

SATISFYING  SYMPATHY 

"  He  has  the  Alchemist's  secret  who  changes  one  sad  note  to  song ; 
he  has  the  touch  of  Midas  who  makes  all  bright  and  golden  some  one's 
day." — ELBERT  HUBBARD 

IS  there  such  a  thing  in  life  as  re-incarnation  ?     It  seems 
the  most  plausible  theory  for  sudden  and  complete 
sympathy    and    understanding    between    people    of 
different  age,  different  nationality,  different  religion,  and 
very  often  a  completely  different  point  of  view. 

The  first  time  I  saw  Helen  I  saw  nothing  of  her  but 
her  eyes ;  bright,  brown,  laughing,  foreseeing,  inquisitive, 
speculative,  humorous,  kind  eyes.  Doctor  Patrick  Murphy, 
her  father,  is  marvellous  at  diagnosis  of  the  body — this 
talent  has  come  to  his  daughter  as  a  diagnosis  of  the  mind. 
Born  and  brought  up  in  the  East,  she  has  been  surrounded 
by  that  mystic  atmosphere  of  the  Orient  which  has  developed 
her  powers  of  observation  until  she  is  uncanny  in  reading 
the  mind  of  every  human  being  who  comes  near  her.  She 
is  by  far  the  finest  psychologist  I  have  ever  seen.  The 
future,  by  some  occult  means,  is  often  an  open  book  to  her, 
but  her  warm  and  generous  heart  will  always  close  the  page 
when  she  knows  it  will  hurt.  And  what  a  whole-souled 
lover  of  humanity  she  is  !  Spending  herself,  giving  herself, 
working  herself,  and  continually  for  other  people.  She 
seems  to  feel  that  everybody  has  a  right  to  happiness,  and 
that  she  must  contribute  toward  that  end.  Of  course,  with 
such  unselfishness  as  a  motive  power,  she  is  always  cheerful 
and  happy.  As  for  me,  there  is  no  one  of  my  friends  who 
has  been  to  me  in  adversity  what  Helen  has  been.  All 

285 


286  I  MYSELF 

satisfying  sympathy  between  two  human  beings  is  a  fore- 
taste of  heaven.  When  my  spirit  faints  I  fly  to  her  for 
comfort,  and  I  always  get  it.  She  loves  to  make  her  affection 
manifest,  and  if  I  look  in  a  shop  window  and  admire  any- 
thing she  never  rests  until  she  has  given  it  to  me.  The 
greatest  or  the  smallest  thing  in  the  world  of  my  desire 
would  be  mine  if  Helen  was  all-powerful.  She  is  young 
enough  to  be  my  daughter,  but,  with  her  mother's  heart, 
has  constituted  herself  my  mother,  knowing  that  I  need  a 
mother  most  of  all.  And  how  she  adores  children — old, 
like  myself,  and  young,  like  my  Love — pretty,  ugly,  rich, 
poor,  clean,  and  dirty.  Helen's  face  softens  beautifully  to 
them  all.  One  poor,  plain,  bandy-legged  and  puny  baby 
she  entirely  clothes  and  feeds  out  of  her  little  pocket  money. 
May  she  be  near  me  at  the  last,  and  may  her  dear  hand  hold 
fast  to  mine,  and  beg  for  grace  when  my  tried  and  restless 
spirit  wings  its  flight ! 

Cardinal  Manning  once  told  me  that  I  was  in  for  some 
millions  of  years  of  purgatory  more  than  other  people,  and 
when  I  asked  him  why,  he  said,  "  Because  you  know  how 
to  be  good,  and  you  are  not  good,  and  those  are  the  people 
who  suffer  the  most." 

I  am  so  thorough  in  everything  that  if  I  once  was  as  good 
as  I  know  how  to  be  and  am  not,  I  should  simply  die.  And 
Helen  is  sure  to  beg  to  become  my  proxy  in  purgatory  to 
work  off  one  or  two  of  my  million  years.  And  I  think,  in 
remembering  all  her  acts  of  devotion  and  her  great  love  for 
me,  her  request  will  be  granted.  I  shall  be  liberated  before 
my  time,  and  wait,  on  the  other  side,  until  she  comes. 

I  have  done  some  unselfish  things  in  my  life — I  suppose 
every  woman  has  been  forced  to  do  them,  whether  she 
wanted  to  or  not — but  I  hope  the  chiefest  will  be  remem- 
bered to  my  credit  when  the  last  great  day  comes — and  its 
being  comic,  to  my  mind,  does  not  is  the  least  lessen  its 
merit. 

One  summer,  my  son,  Francis  Howard,  Johannes  Wolff, 
a  party  of  friends  and  myself,  went  to  Oberammergau  to 
the  "  Passion  Play."  The  construction  of  my  hat  was  such, 


SATISFYING  SYMPATHY  287 

that  it  was  easier  to  attach  my  "  transformation  "  to  it — 
which,  as  a  matter  of  convenience,  I  was  wearing  while  I  was 
travelling — than  to  put  it  on  my  head  ;  and  it  was  not  long 
after  we  were  all  seated  that  a  man  sitting  behind  me — a 
man  with  a  strange  foreign  accent — said,  "  Madam,  I  cannot 
see  the  stage  unless  you  take  off  your  hat."  I  replied, 
"  I  fear  it  is  impossible."  "  And  I  have  travelled  seven 
thousand  miles  to  see  this  play,"  he  added.  That  settled 
it.  I  could  not  bear,  after  such  a  journey,  to  inconvenience 
him,  so  I  bravely  took  out  my  hatpins  and  deposited  hat, 
hair  and  all,  in  my  lap.  My  son,  sitting  by  me,  didn't 
notice  at  first,  but  presently  he  turned  round  and  exclaimed, 
"  What  on  earth  are  you  showing  that  noble,  intimidating 
forehead  of  yours  for  ?  "  And  I  said,  "  On  this  occasion 
it  happens  to  be  a  Christian  virtue — I  have  taken  off  my  hat 
and  hair  so  the  man  sitting  behind  me  shall  see  the  '  Passion 
Play.' '  Then  on  the  other  side  Monsieur  Johannes  Wolff, 
whom  I  had  known  a  great  many  years,  went  into  paroxysms 
of  laughter  over  my  coiffure,  as  my  hair,  in  order  to  wear 
the  transformation  comfortably,  was  drawn  quite  flat  and 
tight  from  my  forehead,  and  so  that  it  might  seem  to  be  part 
of  the  transformation  was  loosely  dressed  at  the  side.  I 
explained  to  M.  Wolff  that  very  few  people  had  seen  my 
forehead ;  that  it  was  indeed  a  test  of  friendship.  I  wonder 
if  the  man  who  had  travelled  seven  thousand  miles  appreci- 
ated my  absolute  unselfishness  upon  this  occasion  ! 

The  "  Passion  Play  "  to  me  was  a  great  disappointment, 
and  I  had  wanted  all  my  life  to  see  it — but  I  was  almost 
sorry  that  I  had,  for  the  Christ  of  my  imagination  is  a  manly 
man,  gentle  and  tender,  but  above  all  courageous,  and  this 
character  the  actor  did  not  portray  at  all ;  the  meekness 
made  every  other  trait  subservient.  It  was  only  the 
crucifixion  that  was  magnificent,  and  that  awed  and  touched 
me  to  the  quick,  and  impressed  me  more  than  anything  I 
have  ever  seen. 

Going  from  Munich  to  Baden-Baden  that  summer  I  read 
Dr  John  Brown's  "  Horae  Subsecivae,"  and  in  the  account 
he  gives  of  one  of  his  father's  friends,  an  old  Scotch  Pro- 


288  I  MYSELF 

fessor,  he  records  an  evidence  of  an  almost  miraculous  love, 
which  seemed  to  me  unforgetably  touching.  It  was  this  : 

"  His  second  wife  was  a  woman  of  great  sweetness  and 
delicacy,  not  only  of  mind,  but,  to  his  sorrow,  of  constitu- 
tion. She  died  after  less  than  a  year  of  singular  and  un- 
broken happiness.  There  was  no  portrait  of  her.  He 
resolved  there  should  be  one,  and,  though  utterly  ignorant 
of  drawing,  he  determined  to  do  it  himself,  No  one  else 
could  have  such  a  perfect  image  of  her  in  his  mind,  and  he 
resolved  to  realise  this  image.  He  got  the  materials  for 
miniature  painting,  and,  I  think,  eight  prepared  ivory 
plates.  He  then  shut  himself  up  from  every  one,  and  from 
everything,  for  fourteen  days,  and  came  out  of  his  room, 
wasted  and  feeble,  with  one  of  the  plates  (the  others  he  had 
used  and  burnt)  on  which  was  a  portrait,  full  of  subtle  like- 
ness, and  drawn  and  coloured  in  a  way  no  one  could  have 
dreamt  of,  having  had  such  an  artist ;  I  have  seen  it,  and 
though  I  never  saw  the  original,  I  felt  that  it  must  be  like,  as 
indeed  every  one  who  knew  her  said  it  was.  I  do  not,  as  I 
said  before,  know  anything  more  remarkable  in  the  history 
of  human  sorrow  and  resolve." 

I  once  told  this  incident  to  David  Murray,  and  he  asked 
me  to  write  it  down  and  send  it  to  him,  which  I  did,  and 
received  from  him  this  reply  : 

"HiLL  HOUSE, 

"  LOWER  HOLBROOK, 

"  24th  January. 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — Your  very  kind  letter  has 
come  on  to  me  here,  and  I  am  indeed  delighted  to  get  the 
actual  statement  of  the  fact  you  related  to  me.  It  is  still 
more  strange  when  full  details  are  before  me,  knowing,  as 
I  do,  the  difficulties  of  a  novice  attempting  drawing  and 
colouring,  and,  above  all,  choosing  the  miniature  and  exact 
portraiture  :  it  is  quite  wonderful  that  he  could  ever  produce 
anything  to  challenge  criticism  at  all.  No  doubt  whatever 
it  is  attributed  to  the  true  cause,  power  of  will  under  pressure 
of  affection,  but  it  had  to  be  a  will  of  a  very  intelligent  man. 


SATISFYING  SYMPATHY  289 

I  shall  treasure  the  instance  and  thank  you  heartily  for 
taking  the  trouble  on  my  account.  My  absence  on  Friday 
you  will  see  is  accounted  for  by  my  being  here  hard  at  work 
in  bitter  cold  and  wet  weather,  the  most  persistent  I  have 
ever  known.  To-day  as  bad  as  ever,  with  an  equally  bad 
promise  for  to-morrow.  I  shall  now  be  out  of  town  till  the 
ist  November,  but  on  my  return  I  shall  do  myself  the 
pleasure  of  calling  at  once  to  see  you ;  meanwhile  with  my 
best  thanks,  believe  me,  very  sincerely  yours, 

"  DAVID  MURRAY  " 


CHAPTER   LIII 

MY  HUMAN  GARDEN 

I  THINK  there  is  no  one  of  my  friends  who  has  given  me 
more  pleasure  than  Max  Beerbohm.  In  the  first 
instance  I  was  somewhat  jealous  of  him,  for  he  succeeded 
George  Bernard  Shaw  as  dramatic  critic  on  the  "  Saturday 
Review,"  and  being  a  fanatic  in  my  admiration  of  that 
brilliant  author,  it  seemed  to  me  that  no  one  could  ever 
worthily  succeed  him.  But  the  editor  displayed  great 
acumen  when  he  replaced  Mr  Shaw  with  Max,  for  he  is 
the  one  and  only  man  who  would  have  been  accept- 
able to  the  public.  His  English  is  exquisite,  his  humour 
is  of  the  most  subtle,  delicate,  and  original  flavour,  and  his 
analysis,  not  only  of  plays  but  of  the  players  themselves,  is 
often  like  second  sight.  He  sees  in  a  transatlantic  comedy, 
or  melodrama,  an  actor  or  actress  playing  a  character  part 
and  therefore  somewhat  disguised.  Yet  straightway  when 
the  weekly  critique  appears  in  "  The  Saturday,"  Max  Beer- 
bohm is  writing  of  the  inner  self,  of  the  man  or  woman 
whom  he  has  seen  but  once  in  his  life.  His  mind  was  a 
delight  to  me  long  before  I  knew  him.  Somehow  we  never 
met  until  "  Madame  Delphine,"  my  first  attempt  at  play- 
writing,  was  produced  at  Wyndham's  Theatre.  It  was  not 
a  professional,  but  a  social  affair,  and  was  a  delightful  day 
to  me  ;  a 'sort  of  material  evidence  of  the  affection  of  many 
friends,  and  was,  in  fact,  a  gift  day.  The  clerk  of  the 
weather  presented  me  with  a  superb  summer  day.  Sir 
Charles  Wyndham  gave  me  the  theatre.  My  friends,  Mrs 
Cecil  Raleigh,  Laurence  Irving,  Lettice  Fairfax,  Brandon 
Thomas,  and  Amy  Height,  gave  me  their  services.  Mrs 

ago 


MY  HUMAN  GARDEN  291 

Labouchere,  my  able  stage  manager,  gave  me  cream  and 
strawberries  for  my  tea,  the  audience  gave  me  enthusiasm, 
and  I  made  the  first  speech  of  my  life,  beginning  in  a 
very  nervous  and  shaky  voice,  but  gathering  courage  as 
I  went  on,  and  afterwards  got  a  number  of  congratulatory 
letters,  but  only  kept  from  them  all  this  one  : 

"6  GROSVENOR  PLACE,  S.W., 
"  Friday. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  must  thank  you  for  a  very 
delightful  afternoon.  Louisiana  and  the  French  have 
always  greatly  interested  me.  I  know  Cable's  story  well, 
and  if  anything  you  have  rendered  '  Madame  Delphine  '  into 
a  more  touching  and  dramatic  incident  than  the  author 
himself.  The  play  is  both  charming  and  pathetic,  but  that 
speech !  Oh  that  speech !!  There  was  never  anything 
like  it.  When  you  make  another,  let  me  know,  and  I  will 
travel  miles  to  hear  it. — Yours  sincerely, 

"  HENRY  CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN  " 

And  this  full,  happy  day  was  the  first  time  I  saw  Max 
Beerbohm,  and  in  spite  of  all  my  emotion  I  remember 
quite  clearly  how  he  looked,  and  just  where  he  stood  in  the 
theatre.  He  was  waiting  for  someone,  and  standing  rather 
back  of  the  people  who  were  shaking  hands  with  Sir  Charles 
and  myself.  I  said  to  Sir  Charles,  "  Who  is  that  young 
man  over  there  with  eyes  just  the  colour  of  the  sky  ?  " 

"  Why,  don't  you  know,"  said  Sir  Charles,  "  that's  Max 
Beerbohm." 

And  from  that  day  we  have  been  friends,  such  good 
friends.  We  have  the  same  point  of  view  about  so  many 
things,  and  so  many  people.  And  how  we  have  laughed 
together,  such  good  understanding  laughs — the  sort  that 
promote  a  comfortable  intimacy.  Barrie  knew  this  in 
"  What  every  Woman  knows,"  when  Maggie  says,  "  Laugh, 
John,  laugh,  then  you  will  understand  me.  Try,  oh  try 
to  laugh.  John,  laugh  !  "  And  he  does,  whereupon  the 
audience  all  cry,  so  closely  do  comedy  and  pathos 


292  I  MYSELF 

commingle.  And,  indeed,  it  can  always  be  said  of  the 
people  who  know  how  to  laugh,  that  they  know  how  to  cry. 

What  long  walks  Max  and  I,  and  "  The  Engineer  "  have 
had  over  the  Brighton  Downs — "  The  Engineer,"  so  called 
by  Max,  being  an  agile  fox  terrier  called  for  his  many 
fascinations  Coaxy,  with  a  fine  muscular  nose,  which  he 
uses  to  tunnel  up  whole  families  of  pink  field  mice.  With 
paws,  nose,  and  snorting  enthusiasm  he  ferociously  digs  and 
digs,  refusing  to  come  when  called,  and  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening  returns  home  bearing  proudly  on  the  top  of  his 
broad  nose  quite  a  small  mountain  of  earth. 

The  only  disadvantage  about  Max  Beerbohm  is,  that  he 
is  too  popular — quite  as  popular  as  the  young  wit  described 
in  a  story  of  his  own — a  man  who  had  ideals,  and  ideas, 
and  wanted  seriously  to  work,  but  his  witticisms,  amiability, 
and  gregariousness  all  prevented  it.  He  was  invited  to 
lunches,  dinners,  bridge  parties,  and  country  houses  ;  in 
consequence  his  life  was  too  interrupted  to  accomplish 
fame.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  separate  himself  from 
the  world,  and  no  way  of  doing  it  but  by  a  drastic  measure. 
He  must  disgrace  himself.  So  he  selected  the  worst  possible 
thing  he  could  think  of — he  cheated  at  cards.  The  result  : 
his  friends  held  a  solemn  conclave  and  resolved  that  so 
witty,  delightful,  and  amusing  a  companion  must  be  freely- 
forgiven,  and  instead  of  being  ostracized  he  was  submerged 
with  fresh  invitations.  They  fell  upon  him  like  the  leaves 
of  Vallombrosa.  Fate  outwitted  him  after  all.  I  wonder 
if  Max  remembers  telling  me  this  story  the  day  I  wasn't 
late  just  to  surprise  him. 

"48  UPPER  BERKELEY  STREET,  W., 
"  Tuesday. 

"  MY  DEAR  BESSIE, — Saturday  then  by  all  means.  And 
I  will  be  waiting  you  at  one  o'clock  on  the  doorstep  of 
Jules'. 

"  I  shan't  really  be  there  till  half-past-one.  But  I  say 

One  so  that  you  will  arrive  not  much  later  than . 

Yours  affectionately,  MAX  " 


MY  HUMAN  GARDEN  293 

He  was  obliged  to  be  very  agreeable  at  this  time,  for  I  had 
just  forgiven  him  for  much  faithlessness  and  a  little  neglect. 

"  48  UPPER  BERKELEY  STREET,  W. 

"  MY  DEAR  BESSIE, — Your  charming  daughter-in-law  has 
asked  me  to  dine  next  Friday,  to  which  I  look  forward  with 
much  pleasure  (and  I  have  just  written  and  told  her  so). 

"  Meanwhile  I  hope  you  won't  have  it  that  it  is  another 
instance  of  the  "  faithlessness  "  of  which  you  are  always  very 
unjustly  accusing  me  (who  am  the  most  faithful  of  creatures) 
that  I  did  not  see  your  play.  I  had  made  all  my  arrange- 
ments to  go  down  on  Saturday,  but  these  were  all  bowled 
over  by  sudden  illness  on  the  Friday  and  I  was  in  bed  till 
the  Sunday,  and  that  was  how  I  missed  the  pleasure. 

"  When  is  the  play  going  to  be  done  again  ?  Nothing 
short  of  '  typhoid  fever  with  complications  '  shall  prevent 
me  from  being  at  my  post. 

"  I  hear  that  Graham  Robertson's  play  is  in  a  sense  yours. 
What  a  nice  present.  I  wish  /  had  a  play  to  give  you  ! — 
Yours  affectionately,  MAX  BEERBOHM  " 

I  wrote  at  once  on  the  strength  of  this  generous  offer  to  say 
I  would  accept  a  book,  and  have  indeed  decided  on  the 
subject. 

There  is  no  one  who  could  do  an  appreciation  of  Henry 
James  (that  master  of  style  and  juggler  of  language)  so 
marvellously  well  as  Max  Beerbohm.  He  is  an  absolute 
master  of  technique  himself,  and  he  loves  the  complete- 
ness and  the  exquisite  finish  of  Henry  James.  I  do  wish  I 
might  "  browbeat  and  bully  him  "  (as  Graham  Robertson 
accuses  me  of  doing  about  "  Pinkie  ")  into  writing  this 
work,  then  the  book,  like  the  fairy  play,  would  in  a  sense 
be  mine,  for  I  too  love  Henry  James,  only  my  artistry  is 
not  sufficient  to  explain  and  analyse  all  my  many  and  various 
reasons  why.  Max  Beerbohm  must  do  this  for  me. 

Henry  James  is  to  me  personally  the  embodiment  of  his 
books,  he  is  so  polished,  so  finished,  so  delicate,  so  distin- 
guished a  gentleman,  and  withal  so  very  human  and  kind. 


294  I  MYSELF 

The  first  time  I  met  him  I  sat  next  him  at  a  dinner.  I  had 
just  come  to  London,  and  he  asked  me  if  I  liked  it.  I  said  I 
hadn't  made  up  my  mind,  and  he  said  I  would, — that  in 
London  you  were  allowed  every  independence  of  opinion 
and  action,  only  you  must  contribute  something  socially — 
beauty  (and  he  bowed  very  courteously  to  me,  and  I  bowed 
very  prettily  to  him)  or  wit,  or  agreeableness,  and  then 
London  accepted  you.  I  said,  "  History  repeats  itself. 
In  Texas,  where  I  was  born,  they  say  a  man  is  not  asked 
his  nationality,  his  religion,  or  his  politics,  but  only  if  he  is  a 
good  fellow." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr  James,  "  then  London  is  the  Texas  of 
Europe." 

A  life-long  friend  of  Henry  James  and  a  witty  woman  from 
Boston,  in  speaking  of  him  to  me,  said,  "  He  has  most  noble 
qualities,  and  is  a  sort  of  Massachusetts  Sir  Galahad."  I 
asked  her  why  he  had  never  married,  and  she  said  he  never 
wanted  to,  that  he  was  once  engaged  to  be  married,  and  when 
the  lady  broke  it  off  he  was  so  grateful  to  her  that  he  became 
her  devoted  friend  for  life.  "  He  never,"  she  said,  "  tempted 
Fate  again.  The  next  time  the  lady  might  not  have  been  so 
kind." 

I  remember  on  another  occasion  a  man  saying  to  him, 
"  You  knew  Mrs  Y.  very  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Henry  James,  "  she  was  clever,  a  great 
mathematician . ' ' 

"  And,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  remarkably  untruthful, 
wasn't  she  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Henry  James,  "  she  might  have  been 
described  as  mathematically  mendacious." 

I  have  known  quite  ordinary  liars  to  entertain  the  futile 
hope  of  rendering  an  acute  triangle  into  a  parallelogram, 
but  a  mendacious  mathematician  would  of  course  lie  on  a 
more  probable  basis. 


CHAPTER   LIV 

HENRY  JAMES,   ELLEN   TERRY,   AND  OLD   LACE 

A  GOOD  many  years  ago  I  was  an  almost  chronic 
invalid,  and  a  German  doctor  told  me  that  I  could 
be  cured'  by  an  operation.  The  doctors  in  England 
disagreed,  saying  I  would  probably  die  under  it,  but  finally 
life  became  such  a  burden  that  I  decided  to  take  a  sporting 
chance  with  death  and  have  it  done.  Lawson  Tait  was  to 
do  it,  I  assuming  all  the  responsibility.  The  time  was  fixed, 
the  nurse  was  engaged,  and  the  doctor  was  coming  the  next 
morning  at  nine  o'clock,  and  I  had  told  no  one  at  all — not 
even  T.  P. — when  in  the  afternoon  Henry  James  came  to 
call,  we  had  an  amusing  hour  together,  and  just  as  he  was 
going  away  I  said,  "  I  shall  see  you  again,  of  course,  but  I 
am  going  under  an  operation  to-morrow  and  the  doctors 
think  it  rather  serious.  I  don't  know,"  I  said,  "  why  I've 
bothered  you  with  it,  for  I've  told  nobody,  and  I  don't 
intend  to." 

"  What,"  said  Mr  James,  coming  instantly  back  again, — 
"  why,  this  is  very  sad  ;  "  and  no  one  could  have  been  more 
kind  or  sympathetic.  He  was  greatly  touched  by  what  he 
considered  my  "  courage,"  which  seemed  to  me  only  a  natural 
dislike  of  fussiness,  and  a  desire  to  save  T.  P.  anxiety,  but 
that  day  T.  P.,  against  my  express  desire,  was  informed  of  the 
imminent  operation  by  my  own  doctor,  and  at  first  he  flatly 
refused  his  consent,  but  was  persuaded  into  it  later.  The 
person  most  terribly  anxious  and  worried  was  my  faithful 
friend  and  collie,  Max.  He  always  remained  downstairs  in 
the  evening  to  guard  the  house,  but  not  that  evening.  He 
refused  to  leave  me,  and  sat  with  his  head  on  my  knee, 

»9S 


296  I  MYSELF 

rolling  his  eyes,  until  the  whites  were  visible,  at  the  nurse 
and  the  various  preparations,  and  sighing  profoundly.  Nor 
did  he  leave  me  during  the  night,  although  he  always  slept 
in  the  hall.  When  the  doctors  came  in  the  morning  he  was 
pulled  out  of  the  room  by  the  collar,  and  when  my  bedroom 
door  was  closed  he  sat  with  his  head  against  it  until  the 
operation  was  over,  and  when  one  of  the  doctors  opened  the 
door  he  slipped  quietly  in  the  room,  crawled  under  the  bed, 
and  except  to  get  food  and  water  in  the  kitchen,  he  never 
left  me  for  a  week.  When  I  woke  up  from  the  stertorous 
sleep  of  an  anodyne,  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  a  big  bunch  of 
white  lilac  and  white  roses  from  Henry  James,  and  later  on 
came  this  note  : 

"  34  DE  VERB  GARDENS,  W., 
"  Saturday,  P.M. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  am  much  touched  by  the  kind- 
ness as  well  as  courage  of  your  note,  which  is  almost  intoler- 
ably pathetic.  I  rejoice  exceedingly  in  your  security  and 
convalescence,  but  disapprove  still  more  intensely  of  your 
pretending  as  yet  to  know  anything  about  complicated  and 
remote  consequences.  Wait  till  you  have  been  restored  to 
the  social  circle  that  deplores  your  absence — then  we'll  talk  ! 
Talk  meanwhile  as  little  as  possible — don't  even  think, 
if  such  a  feat  is  possible  to  your  irrepressible  mind  !  Only 
peacefully  exist,  regularly  eat,  abundantly  sleep,  and 
serenely  wait.  Meanwhile  a  lot  of  helpful  thinking  will  be 
done  for  you  about  you  ;  even  by  yours,  dear  Mrs  O'Connor, 
most  truly,  HENRY  JAMES  " 

How  I  prized  that  letter,  even  more  than  the  flowers,  for 
*hey  are  withered,  but  the  kindly  words  will  ever  be  mine. 

The  operation  was  successful,  and  the  following  summer  I 
could  walk  for  miles  without  fatigue — a  thing  I  had  not  been 
able  to  do  in  years. 

But  "  to  sleep  abundantly,"  that  has  always  been  denied 
me.  Oh,  the  terrible  bouts  of  insomnia  that  ever  pursue 
me  !  Why  my  brain  has  not  succumbed  to  this  constant 
torture  I  know  not,  only  that  I  began  life  with  the  con- 


HENRY  JAMES,  ELLEN  TERRY,  ETC.     297 

stitution  of  Texas  mustangs,  the  ponies  that  can  stand  hard 
work,  immense  fatigue,  and  even  a  moderate  amount  of 
starvation  and  yet  thrive  on  it.  And  of  all  people  Ellen 
Terry  is  most  constantly  associated  with  my  insomnia,  for  I 
so  often  remember  in  the  long,  wakeful  hours  her  unspeak- 
able kindness.  Some  friend  told  her  that  I  was  suffering 
from  this  heart-breaking  malady.  At  the  time  she  was  on 
tour  under  her  own  management  and  overwhelmed  with 
work,  and  what  does  she  do  but  put  everything  aside,  and 
write  me  a  long  letter  offering  me  her  cottage  in  the  country, 
and  making  arrangements  for  the  grocer  and  the  butcher  and 
the  milkman  to  call,  telling  me  where  I  could  engage  "  a 
general "  until  my  own  servant  arrived,  and  going  into  every 
smallest  detail  for  my  comfort.  What  a  sunny,  kind  and 
generous  nature  she  has  !  I  wonder  if  anyone  has  ever 
known  Ellen  Terry  without  being  under  some  sort  of  obliga- 
tion to  her  of  actual  service  or  sympathy.  And  how  delight- 
fully quaint  she  is,  and  how  unlike  other  people  !  Long  ago, 
she  and  Sir  Henry  were  dining  at  the  Laboucheres  ;  they  were 
already  a  little  late,  when  I  saw  her  whisper  something  to 
Mrs  Labouchere,  who  smiled,  and  Ellen  ran  lightly  upstairs 
and  presently  came  down  again  beaming.  It  seemed  she 
had  expressed  a  desire  to  clean  her  teeth,  and  asking  if  there 
were  a  new  tooth  brush  in  the  house,  Mrs  Labouchere  said 
she  would  find  one  in  the  washstand  drawer  of  the  bath- 
room. The  dear  !  we  would  all  have  waited  dinner  with 
pleasure,  if  she  had  even  decided  on  a  Turkish  bath. 

We  were  neighbours  in  Chelsea,  Ellen  Terry  and  I,  but 
both  busy  women,  and  I  rarely  saw  her,  and  had  not  heard 
from  her  in  many  months,  when  one  morning  I  received  a 
letter  enclosing  a  lovely  piece  of  old  lace.  Of  course  I  was 
mightily  pleased,  wrote  and  thanked  her  and  heard  no  more. 
When  the  summer  came,  a  special  blue  muslin  was  bought, 
and  a  collar  embroidered  in  little  white  sprigs  and  finished 
by  the  lace,  and  the  beauty  of  that  cerulean  gown  was  com- 
mented upon  by  everybody.  One  day  I  made  a  special 
journey  to  see  Ellen,  and  asked  if  she  liked  the  dress,  and  said, 
"  I  am  wearing  your  lace,  you  see  !  " 


298  I  MYSELF 

"  My  lace  !  "  she  said  looking  surprised,  "  did  I  give  you 
that  lace  ?  " 

"  You  did,"  I  said. 

"  Why  did  I  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  never  known,"  I  said. 

"  Well  anyhow,"  she  said,  "  it  was  very  sweet  of  me,  and 
the  lace  is  sweet  and  so  are  you,"  and  she  kissed  me,  and  I 
daresay  by  now  has  quite  forgotten  the  incident.  I  have  the 
collar  still,  and  I  hope  I  will  be  always  associated  in  her 
mind  with  anything  so  pleasant  as  old  lace  or  lavender. 

I  had  occasion  to  borrow  her  scarlet  robes  for  a  study  made 
by  a  friend  of  me  as  Portia — and  she  was  so  gracious  about  it, 
sending  this  letter  in  reply  : 

"  22  BARKSTON  GARDENS, 
"  EARL'S  COURT,  S.W. 

"  MY  DEAR  BESSIE, — Of  course  I  will  lend  you  my 
'  Portia  '  robes,  and  have  directed  my  theatre  maid  to  pack 
them  off  this  day. 

"  Eight  people  in  my  household  have  influenza  and  we 
have  a  hospital  nurse,  and  this  state  of  affairs  means  a  good 
deal  of  extra  work,  or  else  I  should  have  answered  your  letter 
before  to-day.  You  will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure,  now  I  have 
told  you  of  my  influenza  happenings. — Yours  affectionately, 

"  ELLEN  TERRY 

"  P.5. — Another  excuse  !  I  had  a  birthday  yesterday — 
that  was  a  fierce  affair,  I  assure  you." 

And  shortly  after  she  wrote  me  again  : 

"  22  BARKSTON  GARDENS, 
"  EARL'S  COURT,  S.W., 
"  Sunday,  May  26th. 

"  MY  DEAR  BESSIE, — Will  you  tell  me  who  Gertrude  Hall 
is  ?  Her  lines,  '  The  Rival,'  in  this  week's  '  Sun,'  are 
rather  remarkable  and  I  should  say  one  day,  not  in  too  great 
a  hurry,  since  most  good  things  come  stronger  slowly,  she 
will  be  able  to  write  for  the  stage.  Do  please  tell  me  whether 


HENRY  JAMES,  ELLEN  TERRY,  ETC.     299 

she  is  young,  poor,  and  of  dark  complexion  ?     And  '  excuse 
me  '  for  troubling  you. — With  love,  yours  affectionately, 

"  ELLEN  TERRY  " 

With  difficulty  I  unearthed  Gertrude  Hall's  poem,  which 
did  not  strike  me  as  anything  remarkable  ;  it  just  fitted  into 
some  mood  or  memory  of  Ellen's,  and  Gertrude  Hall  herself 
I  never  discovered. 

Ellen  Terry,  the  woman  with  her  gentle  sweetness,  has  a 
successful  rival  in  Ellen  Terry  the  actress  ;  for  myself  there  is 
no  artist  who  has  given  me  so  much  and  such  heartfelt 
pleasure.  When  she  comes  dancing  upon  the  stage  like 
embodied  sunshine,  and  holds  out  her  arms,  taking  every 
individual  in  the  audience,  figuratively  speaking,  to  her 
large  and  tender  heart,  her  words,  whatever  they  may  be, 
mean  the  dear  old  doggerel  of  my  childhood  : 

"  If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
No  knife  can  cut  our  love  in  two." 

I  am  always  permeated  with  wonder  that  so  much  appeal- 
ing joy  and  friendliness  can  dart  so  directly  beyond  the  foot- 
lights, and  never  do  I  love  her  more  than  when  she  hesitates 
over  her  words,  and  fills  them  in  with  the  most  delightful 
business.  And  occasionally  she  supplies  even  Shakespeare 
with  a  word  of  her  own. 

In  the  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  "  Mistress  Page  says  to 
Falstaff :  "On  my  word,  it  will  serve  him  ;  she's  as  big  as 
he  is  :  and  there's  her  thrummed  hat,  and  her  muffler  too  : 
Run  up,  Sir  John." 

Instead  of  muffler,  Ellen  sometimes  substituted  "  thing- 
um-ey." 

And  the  audience  twinkled  over  "  thing-um-ey "  and 
thought  it  Shakespeare  ! 

I  am  sure  the  immortal  poet  would  have  changed  the  word 
himself,  if  he  had  seen  how  adorable  and  amusing  it  was 
made  by  Ellen  Terry. 

Laurence  Irving  has  a  far  greater  sin  on  his  soul,  for  in 
"  Coriolanus  "  he  wrote  a  long,  fine,  high-sounding,  brave, 


300  I  MYSELF 

warlike  speech  for  Sir  Henry,  who  gave  it  with  great  emphasis, 
and  the  critics  never  one  of  them  discovered  the  clever 
Irvingesque  intrusion.  Of  all  the  many  young  men  who  are 
his  disciples  Tolstoy  should  be  proudest  of  Laurence  Irving. 
He  is  a  very  remarkable  man,  possessing  ideality,  straight- 
forwardness, wonderful  refinement  of  mind,  and  has  a  high, 
and  even  a  noble  sense  of  duty  toward  his  fellow  men.  He  is 
a  better  author  than  actor,  and  it  is  a  pity  he  writes  so  little. 
His  tragedy,  "  Richard  Lovelace,"  is  like  an  old-fashioned 
ballad,  rendered  into  a  charming  poetic  play.  Mrs  Irving 
(Mabel  Hackney)  was  delightful  in  it.  She  is  one  of  the  most 
gifted  of  the  younger  actresses  of  the  day. 


CHAPTER   LV 

A  LACE  POCKET  HANDKERCHIEF  AND  ST  JOSEPH 

ONE  of  my  very  first  recollections  of  London  is  con- 
nected with  the  stage — Wilson  Barrett  gave  us  a 
dinner  in  his  pretty  house  in  St  John's  Wood.  The 
fashion  of  white  and  light  rooms  was  then  unknown,  and  the 
drawing-room  walls  were  covered  in  brown  velvet,  and  silver 
candelabra  gave  the  necessary  light.  It  was  neither  a  cheer- 
ful nor  a  gay  room,  but  I  must  say  very  becoming  as  a  back- 
ground to  the  women.  A  daughter  of  William  Morris,  with 
clear  serious  eyes  that  had  a  sort  of  glow  within,  wore  a  long 
classic  white  gown  tightly  embroidered  in  a  thread  of  green 
silk,  and  against  the  rich  dark  background  she  looked  like 
a  tall,  pale  lily.  Olive  Schriener,  the  author  of  "  An  African 
Farm,"  was  in  London  then,  and  I  remember  we  spoke  of  her. 
She  was  a  little  thing  with  bright  red  cheeks,  much  dark 
curly  hair,  and  a  pleasant  manner,  but  not  at  all  romantic 
looking.  I  always  liked  Wilson  Barrett :  there  was  some- 
thing boyish  about  him,  even  in  his  acting,  which  was  stagey, 
but  in  many  respects  very  fine.  When  I  saw  him  in  "  The 
Sign  of  the  Cross  "  I  actually  soaked  a  handkerchief  with 
tears,  and  as  I  left  the  theatre,  put  the  wet  little  wad  in  an 
envelope,  and  wrote  "  My  tribute  "  upon  it,  and  sent  it 
around  to  the  stage  door. 

The  next  day  came  this  note  : 

"  LYRIC  THEATRE, 

"  SHAFTESBURY  AVENUE, 

"  Jan.  22nd,  1896. 

"  DEAR   MRS   O'CONNOR, — This   affair   of   the   dripping 
handkerchief  must  not  be  misconstrued  by  Mr  O'Connor. 

301 


302  I  MYSELF 

I  presume  he  is  not  an  Othello  !  I  received  your  tribute 
of  tears,  and  enclosed  is  but  a  poor  return  for  them — but 
please  accept  it  as  a  small  token  of  gratitude.  I  am  glad  you 
so  thoroughly  enjoyed  yourself.  When  next  you  come  to 
see  the  play  please  let  me  shake  hands  with  you,  it  is  too  long 
a  time  since  we  met. 

"  Give  my  kindest  greetings  to  your  husband,  and  believe 
me,  ever  yours,  WILSON  BARRETT  " 

The  letter  enclosed  the  loveliest  possible  Valenciennes 
pocket  handkerchief  tied  with  emerald  green  ribbons — and 
Wilson  Barrett  told  me  afterwards  that  he  bought  it  himself, 
and  was  so  afraid  it  would  not  be  as  real  as  my  tears,  but  I 
assured  him  it  was. 

"  July  2ist. 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — To-morrow  is  my  farewell  day 
and  night,  so  it  will  not  be  possible  for  me  to  come,  much  as  I 
regret  it. 

"  The  Prince  of  Wales  and  a  very  distinguished  audience 
will  be  present  in  the  evening.  I  am  so  sorry  that  you 
cannot  come  yourself. 

"  Will  you  bring  Mrs  Leslie  to  see  the  last  of  my  London 
performances  ?  '  Hamlet '  begins  at  7.45.  If  you  can 
come  let  me  know  at  once  and  I  will  send  you  a  box. — 
"  With  kindest  regards,  ever  yours  sincerely, 

"  WILSON  BARRETT  " 

In  answer  to  this  note  I  saw  his  "  Hamlet  "  but  did  not 
care  for  it  at  all.  I  sent  Agnes  Vale  to  see  "  The  Sign  of  the 
Cross  "  and  she  said  she  felt  more  "  at  home  "  in  it  than  any 
play  she  ever  saw.  When  I  asked  why,  she  said  it  reminded 
her  so  much  of  the  life  of  St  Agnes. 

I  had  a  great  regard  for  the  opinion  of  Agnes  Vale,  who 
lived  with  me  five  years,  a  dear  devoted  little  person  in 
my  service ;  she  was  a  housemaid  in  reality,  but  a  lady  in 
feeling. 

After  she  had  been  with  me  some  months  she  said  to  me, 


A  LACE  HANDKERCHIEF  AND  ST  JOSEPH    303 

"  You  know,  dear  madame,  the  way  I  came  to  you  was  this  : 
The  nuns  sent  me  out  to  my  first  place  and  it  was  a  very 
bad  one,  and  I  went  back  to  the  convent  at  the  end  of  the 
month,  and  then  I  told  St  Joseph  that  I  was  not  like  most 
girls,  I  wouldn't  ask  him  for  a  husband — that  might  be  more 
difficult  for  him — but  I  would  ask  him  for  a  nice,  kind  lady  ; 
and  then  I  went  out  and  I  bought  his  statue  a  new  brown 
dress,  and  I  made  it  and  put  it  on  him,  and  then,  dear  madame, 
St  Joseph  sent  me  you.  Well,  that  wasn't  so  bad  in  him, 
was  it  ?  " 

I  have  an  idea  that  Agnes  really  established  my  having 
a  sort  of  claim  upon  St  Joseph,  for,  after  that  she  was 
always  asking  him  little  favours  for  me,  and  once  when  I  was 
very  ill,  my  good  little  friend  had  three  Masses  said  for  my 
recovery,  and,  like  the  little  lady  that  she  was,  never  told  me 
that  she  had  paid  for  them,  lest  I  should  feel  under  obliga- 
tion to  her.  But  St  Joseph  did  not  protect  her  from  a  most 
unfortunate  experience.  She  was  very  thrifty  and  I  paid 
her  wages  only  quarterly.  Just  before  I  went  abroad  one 
summer,  I  gave  her  her  quarter's  wages,  seven  pounds.  As 
ill-luck  would  have  it,  a  short  time  afterwards  a  woman  came 
to  the  house  and  rang  the  door  bell  and  Agnes  opened  it. 

"  Is  this  Miss ?  "  "  Vale  ?  "  Agnes  supplied.  "  Yes,"  the 

woman  answered,  "  you  are  exactly  the  person  I  have  come 
to  see.  Is  Mrs  O'Connor  in  town  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Agnes,  "  she  is  in  France." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  woman,  "  what  a  pity  !  You  know  how 
kind  she  is." 

"  Yes,"  Agnes  said. 

"  Well !  "  the  woman  replied,  "  I  have  £300  that  Mrs 
O'Connor  has  promised  to  invest  for  me,  would  you  mind 
taking  care  of  it  until  she  returns  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  Agnes  said,  "  but  perhaps  Mr  O'Connor 
would  be  better. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  the  woman  answered,  "  this  is  a  secret  be- 
tween Mrs  O'Connor  and  myself,  and  I  want  you  to  take 
care  of  the  £300  only  until  she  returns  from  Paris.  When 
will  that  be  ?  " 


3o4  I  MYSELF 

Agnes  told  her  that  I  was  expected  back  at  the  end  of  the 
week. 

"  Well,"  said  the  woman,  "  I  will  return  with  the  £300  and 
you  will  take  care  of  it  for  me.  The  moment  Mrs  O'Connor 
arrives  please  give  it  to  her." 

Agnes  said  she  would  and  the  woman  turned  to  go.  Then 
a  thought,  Agnes  said,  seemed  to  come  to  her,  and  she  came 
back  saying,  "  But  until  I  get  the  £300  I  have  no  money,  I 
wonder  if  you  would  let  me  have  £3  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Agnes  confidingly,  "  I  can  let  you  have  £7." 

The  woman  said  that  would  be  even  better,  and  so  she 
took  the  £7  and  was  to  return  with  the  £300  in  a  few  hours. 
Of  course  she  was  never  heard  of  again. 

When  I  came  back  and  Agnes  related  the  incident  to  me 
with  many  flowing  tears,  I  really  could  not  sympathize  with 
her  greatly  and  I  said  to  her  : 

"  Agnes,  you  are  an  intelligent  human  being.  You  know 
that  I  have  no  secrets,  whatever  ;  that  my  letters  are  always 
lying  about  open  ;  that  I  never  had  seen  this  woman  before  ; 
and  you  know  that  I  am  not  a  business  woman." 

Agnes  said  she  knew  that. 

I  said  to  her.  "  Why  didn't  you  put  your  thinking  cap 
on  and  remember  that  Mr  O'Connor's  secretary,  Mr  Walker, 
pays  all  my  bills  and  pays  all  the  household  bills,  and  under 
these  circumstances  with  no  command  over  any  money 
whatever  for  myself,  and  knowing  nothing  about  invest- 
ments, why  in  the  world  should  an  utter  stranger  bring  me 
£300  to  put  out  at  interest  for  her  ?  Really,"  I  said, 
"  you  have  been  too  foolish." 

Tears  flowed  afresh  and  poor  Agnes  retreated  to  the 
kitchen. 

Angele,  a  nice  little  French  maid,  was  living  with  me  at 
the  time  and  was  just  beginning  to  speak  English,  but  her 
vocabulary  was  most  limited.  She  said  she  was  very  sorry 
for  Agnes  and  I  said  I  had  no  patience  with  her,  that  she  was 
such  a  donkey,  and  in  order  to  explain  my  description  to 
Agnes  it  was  necessary  for  Angele  to  give  fearful  hee-haws 
in  the  kitchen  in  imitation  of  the  beast  whose  name  she  did 


A  LACE  HANDKERCHIEF  AND  ST  JOSEPH     305 

not  know  in  English.  With  this  Agnes  returned  to  me  and 
said,  she  would  much  rather  have  parted  with  the  £7  than 
have  had  me  call  her  a  "  Hee-haw."  Whereupon  my  con- 
science troubled  me  so  dreadfully  that  I  made  her  a  present 
of  £2  towards  the  loss  of  the  £7,  and  by  strict  economy,  before 
the  end  of  the  year,  she  had  with  Christmas  boxes  nearly 
made  up  the  amount. 

Agnes  left  me  only  on  account  of  a  long  illness,  and  she  has 
been  some  eight  or  nine  years  now  in  her  place,  but  she  still 
prays  to  St  Joseph  for  me,  and  comes  regularly  to  see  me  ; 
and  though  she  says  her  new  lady  is  a  Saint,  she  has  confided 
to  me  that  she  has  never  felt  "  at  home  "  with  her  as  she 
did  with  me,  and  she  has  always  the  intention  of  some 
day  coming  back  to  live  with  me  again. 


20 


CHAPTER   LVI 

FAITHFUL  ENGLISH  KINDNESS 

"  If  we  sit  down  at  set  of  sun 
And  count  the  things  that  we  have  done, 
And  counting  find  one  self-denying  act, 
One  word  that  eased  the  heart  of  him  who  heard, 
One  glance  most  kind  that  fell  like  sunshine  where  it  went, 
Then  we  may  count  the  day  well  spent."      GEORGE  ELIOT 

WHEN  I  think  of  all  the  kindness  I  have  received  at 
the  hands  of  my  English  friends,  it  overwhelms 
me.  Years  ago  after  introducing  Thomas  Nelson 
Page,  that  most  gifted  author  and  charming  of  men,  to  Lady 
St  Helier,  she  said  to  me,  "  It  was  so  nice  of  you  to  bring  him 
to  see  me — remember  your  friends  are  always  welcome  in 
my  house."  I  have  not  abused  her  generous  offer,  but  it 
greatly  touched  me.  What  a  wonderful  combination  she  is 
of  capability,  tact,  utter  unselfishness,  and  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  world.  She  and  witty  Mrs  Louis  Nixon 
of  New  York  are  almost  the  only  women  I  have  ever 
seen  with  all  these  qualities  united.  Worldliness  generally 
means  hardness  in  a  woman,  with  a  fair  slice  of  selfish- 
ness— but  there  is  nothing  Lady  St  Helier  enjoys  more 
than  sacrificing  herself.  Her  door  is  ever  on  the  latch,  and 
oftentimes  when  the  house  is  filled  to  overflowing  with 
visitors,  she  gives  up  her  own  room  to  some  one — perhaps 
a  nurse  with  a  convalescent  child  who  has  been  undergoing 
some  operation — and  she  herself  sleeps  on  the  sofa  in  a 
dressing-room.  She  is  without  a  particle  of  personal  vanity. 
I  remember  after  lunch  one  day,  before  her  two  pretty 
daughters  were  married,  going  upstairs  with  her  while  she 
put  on  her  bonnet.  On  looking  for  a  veil  she  found  that  her 


FAITHFUL  ENGLISH  KINDNESS          307 

girls  had  taken  both  her  new  ones,  and  she  seemed  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise  to  have  them  appropriate  what  they 
liked.  She  loves  drudging,  really  working  for  other  people, 
and  in  her  whole  life  she  has  never  refused  sympathy  or 
kindness  to  one  in  trouble  or  in  need. 

Sir  Francis  was  equally  kind ;  his  close  proximity  in  the 
Divorce  Court  to  human  nature,  necessarily  at  its  worst  and 
most  untruthful  on  account  of  the  unjust  laws,  but  gave  him 
greater  faith  in  the  goodness  of  men  and  women.  He  once 
said  to  me,  "  It  was  impossible  for  a  Divorce  Court  Judge 
ever  to  lose  his  faith  in  the  inherent  goodness  of  man, 
seeing,  as  he  did  daily,  revelations  of  long  and  patient 
martyrdoms  silently  borne  by  men  and  women  whose  relief 
oftentimes  came  too  late." 

One  night  at  Lady  St  Helier's  I  sat  next  to  the  Right 
Honble.  Cecil  Raikes,  at  that  time  Postmaster  General. 
He  wanted  to  know  what  he  could  do  to  show  his  appreci- 
ation of  an  Anglo-American,  and  I  instantly  asked  for  a  pillar- 
box  to  be  put  up  before  the  front  door  of  Oakley  Lodge. 
He  laughingly  said  it  should  be  done  at  once.  T.  P.  was 
surprised  at  my  request,  and  going  home  gave  me  a  lecture 
on  the  freedom  of  my  American  manners.  I  said  "  Wouldn't 
it  be  nice  to  have  a  nearer  pillar  box  ?  "  He  agreed  that  it 
would,  but  said  it  was  impossible.  However  a  very  few 
days  later  a  Government  cart  drove  up,  and  deposited  exactly 
opposite  our  door  a  shining  new  pillar  box,  and  when  T.  P. 
returned  at  midnight  from  the  House  of  Commons  there  was 
my  scarlet  triumph  to  greet  him. 

When  we  lived  in  Grosvenor  Road  I  saw  a  little  boy 
drowned  in  the  river,  just  before  the  house — a  heart-breaking 
experience — and  the  very  same  day  (luckily,  I  had  gone  out), 
a  second  boy  suffered  a  like  fate.  It  was  a  favourite  part  of 
the  Thames  for  swimmers,  so  I  went  to  the  Chief  of  Police 
and  begged  to  have  a  policeman  stationed  there  for  the  pro- 
tection of  boys — and  in  an  hour  the  policeman  arrived,  with 
orders  to  report  to  me,  that  I  might  show  him  the  exact  place 
of  danger.  I  did  not  get  back  until  six  o'clock,  and  there  he 
stood,  and  had  been  standing  like  a  sentinel  in  front  of  the 


308  I  MYSELF 

house  all  day.  They  had  told  him  nothing  at  Scotland  Yard 
except  that  he  was  to  take  an  order  from  me.  T.  P.  wondered 
why  on  earth  a  giant  policeman  was  standing  directly  before 
our  front  door,  and  said,  when  I  explained,  that  we  were 
eternally  compromised  with  the  neighbours,  who  would 
think  we  were  under  observation.  (It  was  at  a  time  when 
there  was  much  talk  about  dynamite.)  Quite  like  a  sergeant 
I  marched  before  that  policeman,  showed  him  the  treacherous 
eddy,  and  after  that  no  more  casualties  occurred.  Sub- 
sequently I  made  the  strangest  request  in  the  world  to  the 
Chief  of  Police  (I  find  policemen,  like  soldiers,  very  sym- 
pathetic), and  he  was  instantly  kind  and  interested  and 
granted  my  request  without  a  smile.  A  dear  friend,  Madame 
X.,  sent  for  me  to  come  and  see  her.  She  was  in  bitter 
trouble  :  her  husband,  an  important  foreign  correspondent 
living  in  London,  had  written  her  from  Austria  saying 
that  it  was  impossible  for  him  ever  to  return  to  England, 
as  he  was  being  continually  watched  and  persecuted  by 
Oriental  Jews,  who  were  employed  for  that  purpose  by  the 
British  Government.  Of  course  this  was  an  utter  delusion 
from  which,  poor  man,  he  suffered  intermittently  until  his 
death,  and  this  was  his  first  attack — and  there  he  was,  alone 
and  completely  terrorized  by  his  diseased  imagination.  His 
wife,  who  was  quite  devoted  to  him,  could  not  go  to  fetch  him, 
as  she  was  hourly  expecting  a  child.  I  read  his  letter  care- 
fully, and  drove  to  Scotland  Yard  with  it,  explained  all  the 
circumstances  to  the  Chief  of  Police,  and  asked  him  to  send 
an  official  document  to  my  friend  with  an  official  seal  and  to 
assure  him  in  the  "  Whereas,  whereby,  we,  the  under- 
signed "  style  of  literature  that  the  British  Government 
loved  him  and  desired  his  presence  above  all  things  in 
London.  A  fine  large  cream-coloured  document  dangling 
with  seals  was  despatched,  and  it  worked  like  a  charm.  My 
friend  returned,  and  for  a  time  lost  sight  entirely  of  his 
delusions,  but  finally,  poor  man,  all  documents  and  arguments 
lost  effect,  and  they  plagued  him  out  of  existence. 

One  autumn  T.  P.  was  in  a  most  depressed  state  of  mind 
a.bout  the  lowness  of  his  exchequer,  and  I  said,  "  Why  don't 


FAITHFUL  ENGLISH  KINDNESS  309 

you  do  some  work  for  the  '  Daily  Telegraph '  ?  I  am  sure 
they  would  be  glad  to  have  you." 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "  they  wouldn't ;  but  they  know  where  I 
am,  and  if  they  wanted  me  to  do  any  work  they  would  say  so." 

I  had  just  been  reading  an  American  paper,  and  this 
admirable  sentiment  vulgarly  but  pertinently  expressed 
struck  my  fancy  :  "  The  difference  between  a  fellow  who 
succeeds  and  one  who  fails  is  that  the  first  gets  out  and 
chases  after  the  men  who  need  him,  and  the  second  sits 
around  waiting  to  be  hunted  up."  Now,  it  occurred  to  me 
the  "  Daily  Telegraph  "  needed  T.  P.,  but  clearly  I  must  do 
the  chasing.  So  I  wrote  Lord  Burnham  at  Hall  Barn,  and 
delicately  advised  him  to  invite  us  there  for  a  week-end, 
which  he  did.  Then  we  had  a  long  walk  and  talk,  and  I 
placed  my  innocent  scheme  before  his  sweet  and  kindly 
inspection,  and  he  at  once  promised  to  help  me,  and  it 
ended  in  his  offering  T.  P.  "  The  Bar  of  the  House  "  and 
various  other  work  for  the  "  Daily  Telegraph,"  which 
tided  us  over  what  might  have  been  a  very  uncomfortable 
time.  Why  is  it  that  so  many  men  dislike  being  under 
an  obligation  to  a  woman  ?  And  yet  the  woman  who 
is  capable  of  making  an  obligation  is  strong  enough  to 
be  generous,  and  to  forget  it.  I  never  confided  to  T.  P. 
that  I  was  "  the  fellow  who  chased  around,"  and  until 
this  fitting  moment  of  acknowledging  my  many,  many 
obligations  to  various  kind  and  generous  people,  I  have 
not  spoken  of  Lord  Burnham's  responsive  and  practical 
sympathy.  But  he  knows  I  am  grateful.  I  am  always 
grateful  for  kindness — thank  Heaven,  my  soul  is  big  enough 
to  bear  the  weight  of  gratitude — a  weight  that  is  insupport- 
able to  many  otherwise  excellent  people.  Too  much  im- 
portance is  given  to  gratitude  ;  personally,  I  don't  care  a 
rush  whether  people  are  grateful  to  me  or4not.  If,  in  my 
small  way,  I  can  be  of  service  to  my  fellow  man  and  he  forgets, 
all  right ! — the  action  has  benefited  my  own  character  and 
that  is  the  best  of  benefits. 

I  owe  a  whole  mountain  of  gratitude  to  the  Society  of 
Women  Journalists,  who,  quite  without  consulting  me,  and 


3io  I  MYSELF 

most  unexpectedly,  elected  me  their  president.  Later,  a 
member  confided  to  me  the  secret  of  my  having  been  elected 
by  a  unanimous  vote.  I  said  "  This  is  because  you 
don't  know  me — popularity  so  often  comes  from  a  want  of 
intimacy."  But  in  justice  to  the  Society,  when  they  did 
know  me  they  re-elected  me  for  a  second  term,  and,  what 
was  a  great  gratification,  the  number  of  members  doubled 
under  my  two  years  of  service. 


CHAPTER  LVII 

MY  SOUL  IS  LARGE  ENOUGH  TO  BEAR  THE  WEIGHT 
OF  GRATITUDE 

MRS  MACKAY  while  I  was  president  gave  the 
annual  party  for  the  Society  of  Women  Journalists, 
in  her  beautiful  house  in  Carlton  House  Terrace, 
and  she  took  as  much  pains  in  entertaining  them  as  if  they 
had  been  princesses.  Besides  our  own  Italian  Concert, 
which  Henry  Russell  furnished  from  his  operatic  company 
singing  in  London  that  season,  Mrs  Mackay  had  an  excellent 
band,  which  discoursed  gay  music  after  the  concert,  and  the 
supper  was  quite  royal,  with  peaches  out  of  season,  white 
grapes,  iced  champagne  and  all  sorts  of  delicacies,  of  which 
to  tell  the  truth  I  did  not  partake,  being  rather  agitated 
over  her  vexation  with  me,  for,  alas,  I  was  late,  and  she 
had  to  receive  a  large  number  of  my  guests  alone.  But 
as  many  of  them  had  never  seen  me,  and  took  it  for 
granted  they  were  speaking  to  Mrs  O'Connor,  and  she  has 
the  sweetest  and  most  cordial  manners  in  the  world,  it 
was  not  really  a  matter  of  any  moment  to  anyone  except 
herself,  but  she  did  give  me  such  a  scolding.  I  was 
perfectly  convulsed  with  laughter,  and  so  was  she  and 
eventually  she  forgave  me. 

I  do  not  know  why  it  is  that  I  am  always  expecting  a 
miracle  to  be  performed  for  me  and  time  to  stretch  itself 
longer  than  it  ever  does ;  yet.  it  is  never  because  I  am  lazy 
that  I  am  late,  but  on  account  of  my  doing  too  much.  Once 
I  was  nearly  dining  in  the  wrong  house,  through  this  repre- 
hensible habit  of  mine.  Rushing  off  to  Mr  Scale  Hayne's  to 
dine,  I  promised  an  extra  shilling  to  the  cabman  if  he  would 

3" 


312  I  MYSELF 

drive  very  quickly,  so  we  dashed  up  to  the  first  red  carpet 
in  Belgrave  Square,  I  ran  in,  saying  to  the  butler,  "  I  fear 
that  I  am  late."  He  made  no  reply,  but  gave  a  haughty 
sniff  and  showed  me  upstairs,  whereupon  a  very  agreeable 
man  came  forward  to  meet  me,  whom  I  had  never  seen  before  ; 
then  I  gasped  out,  "  Oh,  dear  me,  I'm  afraid  this  is  not  the 
house  ;  I  am  dining  with  Mr  Scale  Hayne,  do  you  know  where 
he  lives  ?  "  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  only  three  doors  from  here," 
and  he  escorted  me  downstairs.  I  was  much  relieved,  for  I 
felt  that  I  really  needed  protection  from  that  butler,  who 
looked  simply  scandalized,  and  sure  enough  three  doors 
away  was  another  red  carpet,  but  if  I  had  never  seen  Mr 
Scale  Hayne  (and  I  had  only  seen  him  once)  I  should  have 
dined  at  the  first  house. 

Two  or  three  days  afterwards  I  went  to  call  on  Miss 
Roosevelt,  who  is  now  Mrs  Coles,  and  I  said,  "  I  think  I  have 
been  here  before.  Didn't  I  come  the  other  night  to  dine 
when  I  wasn't  expected  ?  "  She  said,  "  Oh,  that  was  you,  was 
it  ?  My  cousin  told  me  afterwards  that  a  greatly  agitated 
lady  came  to  dinner  at  the  last  moment,  and  he  was  sure 
she  belonged  to  us  and  was  an  American,  and  he  was  sorry 
he  had  not  begged  her  to  stay  and  dine."  I  said,  "  So 
indeed  am  I." 

T.  P.  once  tried  his  hand  at  my  reformation.  We  were 
going  to  the  theatre  together.  I  was  just  a  little  late  and  he 
suddenly  announced  that  he  wanted  to  see  the  curtain  go  up. 
I  said,  "  But  you  never  have  seen  a  curtain  go  up,  and  you 
haven't  had  your  dinner !  "  He  replied  that  that  did  not 
matter  :  he  would  much  rather  be  in  time  for  the  theatre  than 
eat  his  dinner,  and  full  of  righteous  wrath  he  dashed  off 
in  a  cab  alone,  telling  me  to  follow  him  later.  I  did,  and 
found  him  and  two  other  people  in  the  audience  sitting 
in  a  dimly  lighted  theatre  at  the  end  of  a  long  and 
stupid  lever  de  rideau.  I  had  had  my  dinner  quite 
comfortably  and  was  in  time  to  see  the  piece.  I  did 
not  crow  over  him — it  would  have  been  too  cruel — but  that 
unhappy  experience  made  him  once  and  for  all  abandon 
my  reformation. 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  GRATITUDE  313 

I  have  explained  to  him  more  than  once  that  I  am  never 
really  late  :  that  I  only  seem  late,  on  account  of  my  manifold 
occupations. 

And  Mrs  Bland  Sutton  was  as  kind  as  Mrs  Mackay  in 
giving  me  her  unique  house  for  the  annual  party  of  the 
Society  of  Women  Journalists,  and  what  a  royal  party  it 
was  !  She  kept  saying  to  me  "  It  is  a  big  house,  and  we 
must  have  enough  people  to  furnish  it,"  so  between  us 
we  sent  out  eight  hundred  invitations,  and  it  just  happened 
that  there  was  nothing  going  on  that  night,  and  everybody 
came. 

We  blocked  up  the  entire  street  in  front  of  Claridge's,  and 
one  friend  who  with  great  difficulty  had  made  her  way  up 
the  stairs  to  ask  if  she  might  bring  in  her  son  went  down 
for  him  and  was  never  able  to  get  back  again.  It  was 
indeed  like  one  of  the  illustrations  in  "  Punch,"  where 
a  severe-looking  policeman  standing  in  front  of  a  large 
crowd  before  a  house  is  admonishing  a  well-dressed  young 
man  to  move  on  ;  the  young  man  answers  :  "  I  can't,  I'm 
at  a  party  !  " 

But  the  people  who  had  got  in  said  they  had  never 
enjoyed  themselves  more,  and  I  quite  believe  it.  Mrs  Bland 
Sutton  loves  lavishly  entertaining  and  filling  her  house  with 
hosts  of  friends  ;  and  I  owe  not  only  her  an  obligation  for 
kindness,  but  her  husband  as  well.  He  is  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  men  in  London.  A  great  Shakespearian  scholar, 
a  fine  natural  historian,  and  a  genius  as  a  surgeon.  He  lives 
for  his  work  and  loves  it,  and  even  with  the  most  serious 
cases  he  is  so  sure  of  success  that  his  patients  imbibe  his  con- 
fident spirit,  and  recover  with  astonishing  rapidity.  I  went 
into  a  Nursing  Home  a  little  while  ago  and  he  performed  an 
operation  for  me,  and  in  a  week  I  was  out  and  at  home  again. 
And  then  there  is  another  friend  whose  kindness  I  shall 
never,  never  be  able  to  repay :  my  doctor  who  has  attended 
me  for  twenty-five  years,  Dr  Septimus  Sunderland.  I  think 
I  have  never  seen  such  a  fine  consistent  character.  His 
friendship  is  as  steady  as  a  rock,  and  his  unselfishness  is  so 
great  that  he  actually  likes  the  people  who  exact  the  most  of 


3i4  I  MYSELF 

him  and  give  him  the  least.  The  Christmas  before  last  I  was 
in  America  and  missed  my  usual  Christmas  present,  so  last 
Christmas  he  gave  me  two,  the  one  of  the  year  before,  and 
the  one  of  the  present  Christmas.  My  son  asked  him  why 
he  gave  me  any  present  at  all.  He  said,  "  My  mother 
demands  your  services  as  her  natural  right,  and  is  always 
bothering  you  about  something  or  other.  I  suppose  it  is 
your  quaint  English  sense  of  humour  which  makes  you  give 
presents  to  the  people  who  should  give  presents  to  you."  I 
revel  in  this  quaint  sense  of  English  humour  and  always 
encourage  it.  And  the  hospitality  that  I  have  received  in 
England  which  I  have  never  been  able  to  return,  really  it  has 
been  overwhelming,  especially  from  my  friends  who  are  lucky 
enough  to  have  theatres.  I  wonder  how  many  notes  I  have 
written  to  thank  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree  for  his  hospi- 
tality, and  Sir  Charles  Wyndham,  and  George  Alexander, 
and  Cyril  Maude,  and  George  Edwardes,  and  that  most 
fascinating  being  Charles  Hawtrey.  And  how  am  I  to  express 
my  unspeakable  gratitude  to  my  ever  hospitable  and  most 
kind  friend  Oswald  Stoll  of  Hippodrome  fame  ?  Again  and 
again  has  he  been  most  prodigal  in  his  hospitality  to  me,  and 
not  only  that,  but  he  laughed  so  enormously  at  some  of  my 
stories,  negro  and  otherwise,  that  he  decided  I  should  have 
an  appearance  at  one  of  his  numerous  music  halls,  under 
another  name,  and  in  that  way  we  would  find  out  if  a  London 
audience  could  stand  me.  I  was  a  fortnight  getting  my  music- 
hall  manner,  and  apparently  never  got  it.  Graham  Robert- 
son was  my  only  confidant  and  he  wrote  to  give  me  courage  : 

"  SANDHILLS,  WITLEY. 

"  I  heard  much  abuse  of  you  from  Ellen  Terry,  which  (of 
course)  I  good-naturedly  repeat.  She  said  that  she  had  seen 
you  as  the  Texas  lady,  and  that  your  behaviour  in  not  sticking 
to  the  boards  had  been  simply  idiotic.  That  you  had  a 
dainty  personal  charm  which  she  would  not  have  expected 
to  get  over  the  footlights,  but  that  to  her  surprise  it  did,  and 
gave  you  a  grip  of  the  audience  that  much  experience  cannot 
always  bring.  That  in  short  you  were  cut  out  for  a  play- 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  GRATITUDE  315 

actress,  and  why  you  do  not  play-act  she  could  not  imagine. 
There  ! 

"GRAHAM  " 

And  later : 

"  SANDHILLS,  WITLEY. 

"  But  I  am  bursting  to  know  how  went  the  Monologue. 
It  must  have  happened  by  now.  I  gathered  from  your  letter 
that  it  was  imminent.  Do  tell  me — was  the  ovation  in  the 
shape  of  roses  and  lilies,  or  eggs  and  cats  ?  If  the  former, 
we  will  rejoice  in  the  intelligence  of  the  public — if  the  latter, 
we  will  remember  its  frequent  lack  of  appreciation  of  genius 
and  the  debut  of  Sarah  Siddons.  Anyhow — do  tell  me. 

"  Here  it  rains  and  rains,  and  Bob,  and  Portly,  and  I,  are 
just  about  sick  of  it.  And  yesterday  a  thunderstorm  got 
into  the  garden  and  I  couldn't  get  it  out.  As  soon  as  it 
had  cleared  out  at  the  bottom  it  tumbled  in  again  at  the 
top — like  pigs. 

"  And  one  can't  sit  in  the  cellar  all  day.  And  of  course 
when  it  went,  it  took  the  summer  with  it  and  now  it's  bitterly 
cold,  and  I  wish  you  the  Compliments  of  the  Season  and  a 
Merry  Christmas,  and  am. — Yours  sincerely, 

"  GRAHAM  " 

I  was  announced  as  Mrs  Carey  from  Virginia,  and  came  on 
in  my  own  whitening  hair  and  a  pompadour  dress,  just  after 
a  gentleman  from  my  native  land,  a  real  negro,  attired  in  a 
scarlet  hat,  a  grey  suit,  and  scarlet  gloves.  He  sang  and 
danced  and  showed  all  his  fine  white  teeth,  and  the  audience 
loved  him.  But  Mrs  Carey  from  Virginia,  the  imitation  article, 
trembling  and  nervous,  with  her  miserable  tears  just  behind 
her  smile,  and  her  little  negro  and  drawing-room  stories,  oh 
dear  me,  no,  they  were  completely  nonplussed  and  wouldn't 
have  her  for  one  moment.  They  told  her  firmly  but  politely 
to  get  back  to  Virginia  as  soon  as  possible  and  to  stop  there. 
Of  course  the  faithful  Rose  was  with  me  and  one  of  the 
ushers  said,  "  I  know  that  Mrs  Carey :  she  is  Mrs  T.  P. 
O'Connor.  I  saw  her  in  'The  Lady  from  Texas."  Rose 
tossed  her  head,  and  when  the  audience  drowned  my  voice  in 


316  I  MYSELF 

satiric  applause,  like  Peter  she  denied  me.  Whatever  I  am 
fitted  for,  evidently  it  is  not  for  music  hall  performances, 
but  all  the  same  I  am  grateful  to  Mr  Stoll  who  did  his  best 
for  me.  I  have  so  longed  to  make  money,  and  the  big 
salaries  the  artists  receive  make  even  the  poor  amateur 
desperately  bold.  "  A  fool  has  only  one  teacher  :  she  arrives 
too  late,  and  her  name  is  Consequences."  Hammersmith 
was  my  night  of  consequences.  One  life-long  friend  in  the 
audience  wrote  me  this  consolatory  letter.  I  really  didn't 
mind  much,  as  I  half  expected  failure,  since  Fate  on  every 
occasion  disciplines  her  unfortunate  but  persevering  step- 
daughter. 

"  4  NEVERN  SQUARE, 

"  EARL'S  COURT,  S.W., 
"  Thursday. 

"  MY  DEAREST  BESSIE, — I  do  hope  that  your  reception 
last  night  is  not  troubling  you  unduly.  It  was  so  easily 
understood.  I  really  think  that  your  audience  was  quite 
prepared  to  be  pleased,  for  you  looked  charming  and  ap- 
peared perfectly  self-possessed,  but  I  don't  think  your  choice 
of  stories  was  a  happy  one  for  any  music  hall  audience.  I 
have  heard  you  tell  many  far  better  at  your  own  table,  but  I 
question  if  even  the  best  of  them  would  have  appealed  to 
such  an  audience.  '  The  Gods,'  from  whom  all  the  opposi- 
tion came,  could  make  nothing  of  the  Tiara  story.  I  thought 
you  wonderfully  plucky  to  brave  it  out  as  you  did — but  you 
always  are  brave.  You  were  really  most  beautifully  gowned, 
and  looked  so  very  elegant  and  graceful. 

"  Don't  worry,  darling.  All  who  really  care  for  you  only 
love  you  the  better  for  the  ceaseless  disappointments  and 
sorrows  that  have  met  you  at  almost  every  turn  in  life. 
Certainly  7  do.  I  hesitated  to  intrude  upon  your  dressing- 
room  last  night,  feeling  sure  that  you  were  not  alone,  and 
thinking  it  probable  you  might  have  immediately  driven  off. 
You  may  perhaps  be  in  town  when  I  get  back  and  we  shall 
meet. — Very  lovingly  yours, 

"  EDITH  WEYLAN  " 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  GRATITUDE  317 

Another  friend  who  has  extended  wide-armed  hospitality 
to  me,  given  me  much  wise  and  sound  advice,  and  helped 
me  in  great  difficulties,  is  my  solicitor,  Clement  Locke 
Smiles,  a  high-minded  man  who,  like  my  father,  never 
said  or  did  or  thought  a  mean  thing.  To  him  I  am  under 
never  ending,  happy,  and  grateful  obligations  as  well  as 
to  all  my  unselfish  and  hospitable  friends  who  have  con- 
tributed to  my  enjoyment  and  pleasure  for  so  many  years. 
They  have  kept  me  in  England,  for  as  I  grow  older  the  cold 
and  damp  of  the  climate  chills  me  more  and  more,  and  if  it 
was  not  that  love,  and  affection,  and  friendship  make 
warmth  and  sunshine  for  me  here,  I  should  go  back  to 
happier  lands  of  sun. 


CHAPTER  LVIII 

ALL  ABOUT  ROSE  AND  THE  DUTCH 

IN  Germany,  next  to  the  Triple  Alliance,  the  most  serious 
thing  in  the  country  is  a  mud  bath — or  a  whole  series 
of  mud  baths  are  more  serious  still.  First,  you  consult 
a  doctor  ;  he  looks  very  grave  and  important  and  orders  you 
two  mud  baths  a  week,  of  ten  minutes  each,  of  a  tepid  tem- 
perature. After  two  weeks,  if  you  still  survive  the  four,  you 
follow  these  with  three  mud  baths  a  week,  of  a  higher  tem- 
perature, resting  much  in  between,  until  twelve,  or  fifteen 
baths  at  most,  complete  the  cure.  Then  you  remain  quiet 
for  a  few  days  and  round  up  in  a  high  and  bracing  place  with  a 
nach  cure. 

But  I  reversed  the  old  order  of  things,  having  no  doctor,  and 
a  supreme  confidence  in  myself  and  in  German  mud.  I  dashed 
in,  took  a  daily  mud  bath  of  half  an  hour  each,  had  myself 
wrapped  in  blankets  afterwards,  and  dripped  for  a  matter  of 
forty  minutes,  and  in  sixteen  days  I  had  completed  my  cure 
with  a  rapidity,  a  courage,  and  a  thoroughness  unheard  of  in 
all  Germany.  Every  day  a  tragic  result  was  expected — a 
sudden  fit  of  apoplexy,  or  heart  failure — but  I  struggled 
through  the  sixteen  most  valiantly,  though  towards  the  end 
very,  very  weakly.  Indeed,  after  a  bath,  I  could  scarcely 
drag  myself  home,  and  my  heart  behaved  as  if  I  was  desper- 
ately in  love  and  my  lover  had  deserted  me  for  the  woman 
I  most  loathed  in  all  the  world.  It  stood  still,  it  beat 
violently,  it  stopped,  went  on,  left  its  moorings  entirely,  and 
made  every  effort  to  occupy  an  absolutely  new  place  in  my 
breast.  When  my  nose  grew  pinched  and  my  upper  lip 
turned  a  chalky  white,  Rose  stepped  in  and  forcibly  put  me 


ALL  ABOUT  ROSE  AND  THE  DUTCH      319 

to  bed,  and  kept  me  there  for  five  days.  This  rest  gave  me 
time  to  think  and  to  take  a  still  more  sporting  chance  with 
death,  a  gentleman  of  whom  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid. 
For  in  the  last  few  years  of  incurable  torturing  insomnia 
how  often  have  I  longed  for  an  unawakening  sleep  ! — 

"  I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter 

And  men  that  laugh  and  weep  ; 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 

For  men  that  sow  to  reap  ; 
I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers, 

And  everything  but  sleep." 

In  the  meantime  I  knew  I  ought  to  rest,  that  quiet  was 
necessary  to  make  my  heart  behave  itself  just  ordinarily  well, 
that  my  banking  account  was  overdrawn,  that  I  couldn't  be 
poorer,  and  could  ill  afford  a  cab  ride,  much  less  a  trip  in 
Holland  ;  and  these  adverse  reasons  all  decided  me  to  take  it. 

I  had  travelled  through  Holland  for  eighteen  years,  and 
always  planned  to  see  a  bit  of  it,  and  on  other  occasions  it 
would  have  been  convenient  and  easy — but  all  other  journeys 
would  have  lacked  the  salt  and  savour  of  this.  A  sporting 
chance  with  death,  and  no  money,  so  what  fun  !  And 
Rose — my  jewel  of  the  world,  my  faithful  comfort,  my 
secretary,  my  confidante,  my  dear,  dear  one.  I  wrote  a 
friend  :  "  I  am  travelling  in  Holland  and  very  ill,  but  if  I  die, 
Rose  will  be  equal  to  the  occasion."  And  so  she  would,  God 
bless  her.  What  a  wonder  she  is  !  She  has  made  but  one 
mistake  in  her  life,  a  very  serious  one — she  has  neglected  to 
become  an  English  Joan  of  Arc.  How  well  she  would  have 
looked  the  part,  and  played  it  too.  She  is  tall,  with  an 
erect,  soldierly,  rounded  figure,  and  a  pretty,  rosy,  fresh  face 
with  wonderfully  clear,  steady,  sensible,  dove-coloured  eyes 
and  long  curly  eyelashes.  And  she  loves  to  do  things — to 
organize  and  plan,  and  contrive,  and  work,  and  accomplish — 
and  all  in  the  best  possible  manner.  But  what  is  so  wonder- 
ful is  that  she  likes  to  work  for  me  better  than  I  like  to  work 
for  myself.  She  loves  to  bring  order  out  of  chaos,  to  answer 


320  I  MYSELF 

dozens  of  letters,  to  return  borrowed  books,  to  send  away 
promised  photographs,  to  mend  and  to  darn,  and  to  clean, 
and  to  make  over,  and  to  economize,  and  all  for  me.  But 
not  for  long,  else  life  would  be  too  sweet — for,  alas,  she 
belongs  to  another.  She  is  the  wife  of  a  fine,  smart 
soldier  man,  an  imposing  picture  in  his  bearskin,  and  now 
and  then  he  feels  so  sorry  for  me  that  he  lends  me 
Rose,  and  for  a  little  while  I  pretend  to  be  rich  and  happy, 
until  she  is  taken  away  from  me  again,  and  then  comes 
gloom  and  despair.  If  she  had  only  been  commander 
of  the  army,  the  Boer  War  would  have  been  ended  in  a 
trice.  It  is  too  late  now,  I  fear,  for  the  Joan  of  Arc  role — 
neither  her  husband  nor  myself  could  possibly  spare  her,  even 
for  the  good  of  the  country.  But  there  is  no  reason  why 
Mr  Haldane  should  not  now  and  then  consult  her.  She 
knows  more  about  the  army  than  anybody  in  England,  her 
heart  is  loyal,  and  her  mind  is  wise,  just  and  courageous — 
three  admirable  qualities  for  a  soldier,  and  still  more  admir- 
able for  the  wife  of  one.  Among  other  soldierly  qualities 
Rose  has  learned  obedience — usually  a  cheerful  obedience 
without  any  arguing :  it  is  only  when  my  nose  is  pinched 
that  she  admonishes  me. 

"  Rose,"  I  remarked,  "  we  are  going  to  Holland."  I  was 
in  bed  and  my  voice  was  very  weak. 

She  looked  at  me  gravely  and  the  dove  eyes  were  reproachful. 

Rose.  "  Why,  do  you  want  to  kill  yourself  ?  " 

Me.  "  I  don't  mind.  Anyhow  with  death  stalking  along 
between  us  we  are  going  to  Holland — but  you  know  how 
often  I've  been  dreadfully  ill,  and  yet  I  always  get  well. 
Death  doesn't  like  me — you  know  he  doesn't." 

Rose.  "  You  are  a  great  responsibility.  What  would  I  do 
if  anything  happened  to  you  ?  " 

Me.  "  Have  me  buried  in  a  quiet  churchyard  away 
from  motors,  and  put  up  a  neat  headstone  with  a  suitable 
inscription." 

Rose.  "  And  what  should  it  be  ?  " 

Me.  "  Say :  '  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Betty.  She  loved 
Hollyhocks.'  ' 


ALL  ABOUT  ROSE  AND  THE  DUTCH     321 

Rose.  "  But  you  love  all  flowers.     Why  Hollyhocks  ?  " 

Me.  "  Don't  quibble.  Let  it  stand  at  Hollyhocks— and 
pack  for  Holland." 

The  soldier  reappeared,  and  Rose  packed. 

Have  you  noticed  that  it  is  never  possible  to  like  a  belong- 
ing of  your  own  as  much  as  a  belonging  of  your  neighbour's  ? 
For  example,  Lady  P.,  who  has  correct  and  beautiful  taste, 
when  travelling  in  Germany  picked  up  a  basket  and  brought 
it  back  to  Lura,  my  sweet  and  pretty  daughter.  She  isn't 
really  my  daughter,  she  is  my  son's  wife,  but  I've  made  myself 
her  mother,  and  she  has  made  herself  my  daughter,  and  we 
both  scorn  the  "  in  law,"  two  hateful  words  made  for  the  un- 
loving. It  was  a  straw  basket  of  charming  proportions,  filled 
with  natural  flowers  prepared  in  a  cunning  German  fashion 
to  render  them  everlasting.  The  green  leaves  were  thick, 
full,  and  curly,  and  at  equal  distances  small  bunches  of  pink 
flowers  were  stiffly  grouped,  and  there  was  a  nice  pungent 
odour  about  it  like  the  paint  that  Mrs  Ham,  Shem  and 
Japheth  diffused  from  the  Noah's  Arks  of  my  childhood.  I 
wanted  that  basket  badly,  but  Lura  wouldn't  give  it  to  me. 
She  had  several  excuses  :  first,  Lady  P.  had  given  it  to  her ; 
second,  it  was  convenient  when  other  flowers  were  withered 
to  ornament  the  dinner-table  ;  and  third,  she  said,  "  Mother, 
you  live  with  me  and  the  basket  is  just  as  much  yours  as  mine, 
you  are  not  housekeeping,  you  can  always  see  the  basket, 
what  do  you  want  with  another  ?  "  All  the  same  I  wanted 
that  basket.  And  I  want  still  more  her  empire  wreath  in 
small  diamonds,  also  a  gift  of  Lady  P.'s  ;  but  of  course  I've 
never  breathed  my  desire — I've  only  looked  at  the  brooch. 

On  one  of  my  most  breathless  and  exhausted  days,  I 
decided  to  go  from  Schwalbach  to  Wiesbaden  for  the  after- 
noon just  to  see  how  much  I  could  stand  without  dropping 
by  the  way.  And  there  in  a  shop  was  the  basket.  Not  of 
course  a  pink  one,  and  a  fresh  one — Fate  was  not  kind  enough 
for  that — but  the  identical  Lura  basket,  only  dusty  and  shop 
worn,  with  the  flowers  a  faded  yellow.  It  was  like  seeing 
the  face  of  a  friend,  and  the  very  soft-voiced  and  obliging 
salesman  promised  rne  a  new  basket,  in  which  the  flowers 


21 


322  I  MYSELF 

were  to  be  a  rosy  pink,  and  the  leaves  a  full  green,  and  it  was 
to  be  ready  packed  and  delivered  at  the  station  when  I  next 
passed  through  Wiesbaden.  Also,  I  ordered  the  replica 
of  a  prettily  shaped  gilded  laurel  wreath — an  offering  for  a 
friend  later  on — there  is  nothing  like  being  prepared  for  an 
emergency,  even  to  a  laurel  wreath  on  hand.  Also  I  bought 
some  lace  cheap,  effective  and  good,  at  a  lace  shop,  and  a 
brown  leather  bag  at  a  reasonable  price,  as  Germany  is 
renowned  for  its  "  leder  waaren."  And  the  day  we  started 
for  Rotterdam  a  messenger  awaited  us  with  two  neat  pack- 
ages— the  wreath  and  the  basket.  How  I  would  crow  over 
Lura  !  Like  the  trusting  soul  that  I  am  and  will  always 
remain,  I  paid  without  examining  my  purchases,  and  we 
proceeded  on  our  way,  unluckily  by  a  different  route,  as  the 
Rhine  is  more  interesting  than  inland  scenery,  so  I  should 
not  do  it  again. 

In  our  carriage  were  two  attractive  German  sisters.  One 
of  them  was  like  a  Southern  American — dark  skin,  laughing 
black  eyes,  brilliant  teeth,  and  an  air  of  happiness  and 
vigour  about  her  that  was  quite  infectious.  My  heart  felt 
lighter  and  less  tired  in  her  agreeable  presence.  She  wore 
a  brown  tailor  skirt  and  jacket,  and  a  panama  hat  with  a 
tiny  crown,  evidently  a  German  fashion,  as  I  had  seen  a 
number  of  them  in  Wiesbaden — it  is  not  a  pretty  one.  Her 
sister  was  a  regular  Teuton,  blue  eyes,  magnificent  full  light 
hair,  and  a  white  and  red  skin,  but  she  lacked  the  vivacity 
of  her  sister.  I  wondered  if  the  dark-eyed  one  was  married. 
She  looked  very  young,  and  I  was  sure  she  had  many  ad- 
mirers. The  mystery  was  soon  solved,  for  when  we  stopped 
at  a  station  I  stood  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  she  was 
met  by  a  young  officer  in  undress  uniform,  who  kissed  her  on 
both  cheeks,  and  then  held  up  a  small  man  of  three  exactly 
like  her,  and  he  too  kissed  her  many  times.  Then  the  man 
of  three  was  admonished  as  to  his  manners,  and  he  brought 
his  heels  together  with  quite  a  military  click  and  made  me 
the  most  fascinating  bow.  His  father  raised  his  hat,  his 
charming  mother  and  aunt  waved  their  hands,  and  the  train 
moved  on.  May  all  angels  bless  and  guard  them  ! 


ALL  ABOUT  ROSE  AND  THE  DUTCH      323 

We  arrived  at  Rotterdam  about  nine  o'clock,  and  Rose 
selected  the  hotel  as  she  selects  race  horses,  because  she  liked 
the  name.  It  was  Leygraaffs.  There  were  no  guests,  but 
much  linoleum.  I  do  not  like  linoleum — Rose  does.  She 
likes  anything  that  she  can  wash.  The  luxury  of  washing 
this  was  denied  her — we  left  too  soon.  The  linoleum  on  my 
floor  was  a  brilliant  green,  powdered  with  still  more  brilliant 
green  apples.  The  walls  were  papered  in  brown  wrapping 
paper,  and  the  curtains  were  pale  cream  dimity  with  a  blue 
ribbon  and  pink  roses  appliqued  on  as  a  border.  The 
furniture  was  of  oak  and  singularly  ugly.  There  are  no 
dressing-tables  in  Holland,  the  washstand  with  drawers 
underneath  performing  a  sort  of  double  duty ;  the  rugs 
scattered  about  were  red  and  yellow,  and  the  edge  of  the 
floor  was  painted  orange.  So  far  as  I  saw,  outside  of  the 
Old  Masters,  the  Dutch  of  to-day  do  not  in  the  least  trouble 
themselves  about  taste.  And  yet  individually  they  make 
some  charming  things — wall-papers  for  example.  I  saw 
some  charming  wall-papers  in  the  shops  of  Dutch  manu- 
facture. Another  disappointment  I  had  was  through  my 
Dutch  friend,  Johannes  Wolff,  who  has  been  living  in  London 
nearly  fifteen  years,  but  has  always  scorned  the  English 
language,  having  instead  composed  a  delightful  vernacular 
of  his  own.  "  In  Holland,  in  my  country,"  he  always  assured 
me,  "  you  will  have  a  good  eat."  But  mine  was  both  bad 
and  very  dear.  Rose  has  too  much  soul  to  care  about  food, 
though  one  of  her  many  accomplishments  is  cooking.  But 
"  a  good  eat  "  pleases  and  cheers  me.  I  am  not  one  of  the 
women  who  can  be  happy  on  a  rusk  and  a  cup  of  tea.  A  feast 
puts  me  in  a  good  temper  with  the  world  and  myself.  A 
famine  makes  me  cold  to  both.  My  palate,  like  my  sense  of 
smell  and  sense  of  sight,  is  keen.  I  can  be  and  often  am 
deceived  in  people,  but  never  in  food.  The  most  talented 
and  wonderful  of  cooks  can  make  a  most  seductive  sauce,  but 
though  concealed  I  at  once  detect  the  ancient  butter.  If  a 
fish  is  not  fresh  I  will  none  of  him.  And  how  people  ever  die 
of  ptomaine  poison  from  bad  fish  and  oysters  is  a  mystery  to 
me.  Knowing  the  danger  as  well  as  the  disagreeableness  I 


324  I  MYSELF 

should  undoubtedly  follow  the  example  of  the  man  who  was 
invited  to  a  public  dinner,  and  taking  his  first  oyster  it  made 
an  instant  reappearance  on  his  plate  while  he  blinked  and 
said  :  "  Now  some  fools  would  have  swallowed  that."  And 
he  was  quite  right — some  timid  and  unscientific  fools  would, 
with  the  result  of  typhoid  fever  developing.  I  should  have 
coughed,  looked  innocent,  and  used  my  napkin  as  a  tribute 
to  manners.  But  under  no  circumstances  would  I  have 
tempted  Fate  by  swallowing  that  oyster.  I  do  not  know 
whether  the  eggs  in  Holland  were  Italian  or  Russian,  but 
they  were  travelled  eggs,  and  eggs,  to  be  successful,  are 
distinctly  stay-at-home  products.  If  I  were  the  maker  of 
the  laws  of  a  country,  foreign  eggs  should  have  a  huge  duty 
imposed  upon  them,  then  fewer  stale  eggs  would  be  eaten. 
Having  partaken  of  one  travelled  egg  (Russian  I  think) 
and  tea,  I  found  the  gods  were  still  unpropitious,  for  when, 
to  comfort  myself  with  a  look  at  my  basket,  Rose  unpacked 
it  and  brought  it  to  my  bedside,  lo,  the  thrifty  German  in 
Wiesbaden  had  simply  dyed  the  dusty  yellow  flowers  of  the 
old  basket  a  hot  purple  and  sent  that  to  me.  Two  had 
remained  undyed,  so  I  plucked  them  from  their  stems, 
enclosed  them  in  a  reproachful  letter,  saying  I  had  trusted 
his  commercial  honour,  and  he  must  take  back  the  old  basket 
and  give  me  a  new  one  or  else  destroy  all  my  deep  and  abiding 
confidence  in  German  shopkeepers. 

At  any  rate  the  eggs  and  the  basket  could  not  destroy  my 
joy  in  the  morning  which  was  beautiful,  cool,  with  sunshine, 
and  a  gay  breeze.  We  left  the  Leygraaffs  Hotel,  and  walked 
toward  the  park,  passing  a  group  of  charming  old  houses  on 
our  right.  I  stopped  on  the  bridge  long  enough  to  photo- 
graph one  mentally.  The  house,  built  of  white  stone,  was 
old,  with  green  shutters,  and  it  stood  on  a  sort  of  round 
mound  of  velvety  grass  carpeted  with  daisies  and  dandelions, 
and  chequered  by  broken  blossoms.  It  was  separated  from 
the  street  by  a  canal  and  connected  with  it  by  a  fine  iron 
bridge.  In  front  of  the  house  were  two  giant  horse-chestnuts 
laden  with  blossoms.  I  never  saw  such  tall  ones,  and  the 
trunks  of  the  trees  were  all  covered  in  ivy.  At  the  left  side 


ALL  ABOUT  ROSE  AND  THE  DUTCH      325 

of  the  house  an  avenue  of  trees  continued,  pink  horse-chest- 
nuts, amethyst  lilac  trees,  lavender  lilac  trees,  and  white 
lilac  interspersed  with  flower-laden  laburnums.  When  the 
breeze  softly  moved  them  they  waved  like  plumes,  and  the 
fragrance  of  that  delightful  mass  of  superb  colour  was  almost 
overpowering.  The  door  of  the  house  stood  wide  open  with  a 
hospitable  smile,  but  there  was  no  one  in  sight — only  an  old 
white  and  orange  setter  lying  on  the  step  blinking  one  eye  at 
us,  and  almost  snowed  over  by  purple  and  white  and  yellow 
blossoms  continually  drifting  down  on  him.  It  made  him 
look  like  a  babe  in  the  wood.  All  one  side  of  the  house  was 
completely  covered  by  an  old  laburnum  tree  with  the 
blossoms  of  a  luxuriance  great  enough  to  make  a  blazing, 
waving  cloth  of  gold.  At  a  long  distance  in  the  park  it 
remained  with  the  sun  striking  it — a  jewelled  banner. 
The  laburnum  is  a  dear  flower  to  me  for  itself  and  its 
memories.  I  remember  long  ago  driving  to  a  garden 
party  at  Mrs  Labouchere's  when  she  produced  "  The 
Tempest."  In  the  caste  were  two  beautiful  people  I 
loved :  my  son,  Francis  Howard,  as  Sebastian ;  and 
Claude  Lowther,  in  a  wonderful  broidered  Venetian  cap, 
the  two  long  feathers,  silken  hose,  and  velvet  doublet,  as 
Ferdinand.  How  handsome  he  was,  and  we  two  friends 
and  mothers,  Mrs  Lowther  and  I,  how  vain  we  were  of  our 
boys  !  An  American  friend  on  whom  Fortune  had  smiled 
came  with  his  splendid  carriage  and  horses  to  drive  me  to 
Pope's  Villa,  and  we  made  a  little  detour  to  see  the  house  of 
the  distinguished  novelist,  Miss  Braddon,  whom  my  friend 
greatly  admired,  and  in  her  garden  was  a  laburnum  tree 
laden  with  blossoms,  and  I  loved  it  and  called  his  attention  to 
it,  and  said,  "  You  can't  do  better  than  that  in  California, 
can  you  ?  "  And  he  said,  "  No,  but  Miss  Braddon  must  not 
be  the  only  one  to  possess  laburnum  trees — to-morrow  you 
shall  have  one  all  in  bloom,  growing  and  blowing  at  Oakley 
Lodge."  And  sure  enough  the  very  next  morning  a  cart 
arrived  and  a  glorious  tree  dripping  with  gold  was  conveyed 
to  the  garden  and  firmly  planted  in  memory  of  our  golden 
day.  I  wonder  if  my  poor  friend  in  the  chaos  of  his  dis- 


326  I  MYSELF 

ordered  mind  ever  remembers  when  he  sees  the  laburnum 
bloom.  He  was  a  bachelor,  never  having  married,  it  was  said, 
because  in  his  youth  he  had  fallen  hopelessly  in  love  with  a 
fille-de-joie.  He  could  not  marry  her :  his  good  common  sense, 
and  he  had  plenty  of  that,  forbade  it :  and  he  could  not  make 
her  his  friend  and  companion.  He  was  a  devout  Catholic, 
a  chamberlain  of  the  Pope,  and  his  religion  forbade  that. 
So  he  provided  for  her  and  left  her,  but  he  always  loved  her. 
And  of  all  the  sane  people  I  ever  met  he  seemed  the  sanest, 
and  yet  he  went  mad  quite  suddenly,  raving  mad,  in  one  of 
the  great  hotels  in  London.  And  all  the  people  who  knew  him 
were  away,  and  his  man,  a  timid  foreigner,  was  frightened, 
and  by  some  quibble  of  the  law  he  was  put  into  the  workhouse 
infirmary.  With  all  his  millions  to  protect  him,  this  is  where 
he  was  found  by  his  friends.  And  though  well  and  strong,  he 
has  never  recovered  his  reason.  I  saw  him  not  long  ago  in 
Brighton  with  a  roll  of  music  under  his  arm.  His  attendant 
said  he  played  the  banjo  a  great  deal,  and  sang  the  popular 
songs  of  the  day.  We  had  a  long  walk,  and  apparently 
rational  talk  together,  but  I  was  too  sad  to  allude  to  the  days 
when  he  was  free  of  mind  and  body,  full  of  interest  in  his 
friends,  and  all  that  concerned  them,  and  he  did  not  ask 
about  the  laburnum.  And  I  did  not  tell  him  that  dear 
Oakley  Lodge  and  the  laburnum  tree  had  passed  into  the 
hands  of  strangers,  for,  though  he  was  mad,  it  would  have 
saddened  him. 


CHAPTER   LIX 

SYMPATHETIC  WAITERS 

THE  parks  in  Holland  are  the  loveliest  I  have  ever  seen 
in  any  country.     They  are  unlike  those  in  England, 
America  and  France,  as  we  see  them,  all  teased  and 
artificially  arranged  and  distorted  by  the  hand  of  man — 
and  tasteless  man  at  that :  they  have  the  appearance  of 
softly  rolling,  grassy  meadows,  with  groups  of  trees,  and 
irregular    paths    wandering    through    them.     The    Dutch 
appreciate  Nature  and  wisely  leave  her  to  manage  her  own 
affairs,  which  she  can  do  so  much  better  than  the  ordinary 
soulless  gardener. 

The  park  at  Rotterdam  breaks  upon  your  startled  vision  a 
perfect  unexpected  joy.  What  a  lovely  wonder  to  find  a  lush 
quiet  meadow  with  the  wind  blowing  the  long  grass  about  in 
waves,  and  a  snowstorm  of  petals  from  white  and  red  chestnut 
trees  showering  down  upon  it,  the  birds  singing  a  thousand 
different  songs,  and  the  nice  black  and  white  cows,  switching 
their  tails,  and  with  the  sheep,  feeding  quietly,  and  the  air 
scented  by  tall  white  and  purple  lilac,  laburnum,  and  flower- 
ing almond,  and  peach  trees,  all  jostling  each  other  for 
elbow  room.  Think  of  it — a  silent,  sunny,  apparently 
remote  natural  country  meadow  not  a  stone's  throw  away 
from  a  busy  town  and  the  great  liners  that  come  and  go  to  and 
from  America.  That  meadow,  freshly  washed  by  the  rain 
and  suddenly  and  surprisingly  come  upon,  was  a  never  to  be 
forgotten  picture.  We  seemed,  except  the  cows,  and  the 
sheep,  and  the  birds  and  the  bees,  and  the  butterflies,  the 
only  living  creatures  in  it — and  yet  it  was  exactly  five  minutes' 
walk  from  our  hotel. 


328  I  MYSELF 

Among  my  many  idiosyncrasies  is  this  :  I  can  never  think 
of  food  unless  I  see  it.  If  a  cook  comes  to  me  for  a  menu  my 
spirit  sinks  to  zero.  My  thoughts  fly  off  at  a  tangent,  and  I 
can't  even  remember  that  a  chicken  crows.  And  to  select 
a  meal  from  a  card  is  most  wearisome  to  me.  I  both  like  and 
appreciate  dainty  food,  but  what  an  insufferable  bore  to  think 
about  it,  and  above  all,  to  dwell  upon  it,  and  to  order  it. 
In  crossing  the  Atlantic,  if  the  waiter  asks  me  what  I  want 
I  always  say  :  "  Bring  me  what  my  next  door  neighbour 
has  ordered."  If  this  is  a  man,  I  am  quite  safe — it  is  the 
best  the  ship  offers,  and  it  saves  both  time  and  trouble.  In 
a  restaurant  I  ask  the  advice  of  the  head  waiter,  and  I 
meekly  eat  what  he  brings  me.  Waiters  I  have  always 
found  very  sympathetic — porters  not  so  much  so — and  cab- 
men not  at  all.  In  all  my  long  years  of  constant  cabbing  I 
have  only  known  three  sympathetic  cabmen.  They  were 
delightful — but,  they  were  exceptions. 

In  Rotterdam  the  head  waiter  was  very  sympathetic, 
helpful,  and  solicitous,  and,  singularly  enough,  truthful.  He 
advised  lobster  salad,  and  said  the  lobsters  were  fresh, 
although  they  came  from  Ostend ;  and  they  were  fresh,  but 
muscular.  It  was  a  nice  lunch,  however,  and  he  did  all  the 
thinking  and  waiting.  Rose  was  meditative  and  silent. 
Like  all  artists,  I  must  have  expression,  and  as  there  was  no 
one  else  to  express  myself  to,  I  expressed  myself  to  the  waiter. 
I  told  him  I  wanted  to  come  to  Holland  and  live  by  the  park. 

"  You  have  seen  it,  of  course,"  I  said. 

He  looked  so  pained  I  was  frightened,  and  answered  : 
"  Seen  it,  Madame  !  I  have  walked  in  it  for  four  hours 
every  day  for  eight  months." 

"  Dear  me  !  "    I  exclaimed.     "  How  delightful !  " 

"  No,  Madame,"  he  said,  very  sadly.  "  I  had  a  great 
shock,  a  great  grief,  and  I  walked  in  the  park  to  keep  my 
reason." 

"  Oh,"  I  replied.  "  I  am  very,  very  sorry — but  you  are 
better  now  ?  " 

"  Yes."  He  spoke  with  resignation.  "  I  am  better. 
My  doctor  tells  me  I  can  work  again,  but  nerve  sickness  is  a 


SYMPATHETIC  WAITERS  329 

terrible  thing.  One  day  I  was  well,  and  this  sorrow  and 
shock  struck  me  like  a  blow,  and  the  next  day  I  was  ill — and 
my  only  rest  was  to  walk  until  I  could  walk  no  more.  The 
park  !  I  know  every  foot  of  ground  in  it,  every  flower  and 
shrub  and  tree,  and  almost  every  blade  of  grass.  Grief  is  a 
terrible  thing,  Madame." 

I  said,  "  I  know — I  know.     I  have  had  great  grief  too." 

"  And  could  you  sleep,  Madame  ?  " 

"  No,  oh,  no — and  I  sleep  so  badly  now." 

"  But  Madame  need  not  stay  in  the  place  where  she 
remembers.  I — well,  I  must  stay  here  where  I  was  once  so 
happy  and  am  now  so  hopeless,  and  I  always  remember." 

Then  a  brilliant  idea  came  to  me.  I  advised  him  comfort- 
ingly. "  Take  one  of  the  big  American  liners  and  go  to 
New  York." 

"  Ah,  Madame,"  he  spoke  like  one  beaten  and  discouraged 
— "  they  are  not  waiting  for  me  in  New  York,  and  yet  this 
hotel  is  too  empty  for  me.  There  are  not  enough  people  to 
make  me  work  hard  and  forget.  I  want  to  run  here,  run 
there,  and  be  busy,  always  hard  worked  and  busy." 

I  clapped  my  hands  with  enthusiasm. 

"  I  have  it,"  I  said.  "  You  must  go  to  New  York  at  once. 
It  was  made  for  you.  Everybody  there  is  running  like  a  hare, 
and  you  can't  think  for  the  noise." 

Rose  had  gone  to  pack  the  bags,  or  I  never  would  have 
dared  to  say  it.  Here  I  wrote  rapidly  on  one  of  my  cards. 

"  Take  that  and  go  to  the  Hotel  Algonquin  and  give  it  to 
Mr  Frank  Case,  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel.  He  is  good- 
looking,  and  you  are  good-looking  "  (not  one  least  little  gleam 
of  pleasure  on  his  poor  sad  face — he  is  the  one  man  I  have 
ever  seen  who  did  not  rise  to  a  compliment — he  was  broken- 
hearted indeed)  "  he  is  amiable  and  you  are  amiable,  he  has 
agreeable  manners,  and  your  manners  are  good,  and  his  inn  is 
successful  and  gay,  and  bright  and  clean,  and  hospitable  and 
delightful,  and  full  of  people,  and  you  will  have  to  run  all 
day.  Frank  Case  has  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world — he 
will  be  a  good  friend  to  you.  Will  you  go  ?  " 

At  last  he  smiled,  showing  such  nice  clean  white  teeth,  and 


330  I  MYSELF 

looked  for  a  moment  cheerful.  "  I  will,  Madame,"  he  said, 
"  and  maybe  some  good  fairy  sent  you  here." 

"  Yes."  I  smiled  back,  though  he  was  only  a  waiter, 
but  also  a  man,  and  in  grievous  need.  "  Yes,"  I  told  him, 
"  a  good  fairy  to  send  you  across  the  sea."  Frank  Case  must 
do  the  rest  of  the  work  now  in  bringing  back  that  stricken 
soul  to  health  and  hope,  and  he  will,  for  he  too  has  suffered. 

Then,  according  to  his  advice,  we  went  to  the  weekly 
market,  and  Rose,  who  rarely  permits  herself  a  remark  about 
her  superior  officer,  said  I  always  seemed  to  get  on  with  a 
waiter — but  more  particularly  with  the  sad-hearted  and  the 
afflicted — and  I  told  her  it  was  because  of  my  great  sym- 
pathy with  the  one  and  my  dependence  on  the  other  that,  to 
think  for  me  what  I  should  eat,  created  a  solicitude.  And 
then  I  remembered  a  most  kind  and  motherly  waiter  in 
Venice  (what  French  wit  was  it  who  said  the  only  man  he 
ever  knew  who  had  become  a  mother  was  George  Sand  ?). 
With  my  usual  trustfulness  I  drank  deeply  and  generously  of 
Venice  water — a  thick,  cold,  tasty,  lemon-coloured  water, 
and,  inured  as  I  am  to  microbes,  the  Venetian  ones  brought 
on  a  sort  of  Asiatic  cholera,  and  I  really  was  for  a  few  days 
quite  alarmingly  ill.  My  chambermaid  was  this  motherly 
waiter,  who  probably  saved  my  life,  for  when  after  days  of 
fasting  I  found  I  was  hungry  again,  I  ordered  a  ripe  tomato 
and  a  fresh  cucumber  for  my  first  meal.  My  waiter-nurse- 
chambermaid  knocked  at  the  door  and  entered,  truly  pleased 
to  find  me  better,  when  he  espied  the  vegetables.  His  face 
darkened  and  became  as  tragic  as  did  the  face  of  Othello 
when  he  discovered  Desdemona's  pocket-handkerchief. 

He  said,  "  The  Signora  will  not  eat  of  these  after  her  great 
seekness  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  reaching  for  the  plate  ;  "  the  Signora 
will." 

The  motherly  waiter  seized  the  plate,  and  carried  it  to  the 
window,  saying,  "  If  the  Signora  will  permit  me  to  say  so, 
she  is  the  most  foolish  lady  I  have  known.  [A  splash.]  I 
have  trow  the  tomato  into  the  canal,  the  cucumber  has 
gone  with  heem." 


SYMPATHETIC  WAITERS  331 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  almost  crying,  "  and  I  was  so  hungry.  I 
don't  care — J'll  order  more." 

But  the  waiter  said,  "  You  will  not  be  allow,  Signora,  to 
keel  your  nice  foolish  self,  because  I  now  go  to  tell  them  in  the 
dining-room  not  to  send  you  nothing  unless  I  bring  heem. 
And  I  also  tell  your  frens  about  the  tomato  and  the  cucumber." 
And  he  went  out  and  came  back  shortly  with  some  dry  toast 
and  a  little  beef  tea.  How  like  he  was  to  a  nice,  fat,  jolly, 
sensible,  kind,  old  woman  !  He  told  me  that  he  was  very 
happy  with  his  wife.  I  am  sure  he  took  good  care  of  her. 

Another  dark  and  very  romantic  looking  waiter  in  Venice 
I  remember,  who  simply  haunted  my  footsteps,  undertaking 
the  sweeping  and  dusting  of  my  room  in  spite  of  quarrels  and 
protestations  from  the  chambermaid.  At  last  my  attraction 
for  him  was  solved.  I  came  from  London,  but  was  not  like 
the  English  ladies,  of  whom  he  stood  in  mortal  fear — my  eyes 
were  exactly  like  the  eyes  of  his  grandmother  who  had  brought 
him  up  and  been  so  kind — and  he  wanted,  oh  so  badly,  to  go 
to  London  with  me,  for  in  London  lived  his  fiancee — 
she  was  lady's-maid  to  a  great  lady,  and  she  was  pretty,  and 
he  had  loved  her  all  his  life,  and  he  found  the  separation 
unbearable,  and  he  was  sure  that  through  me  it  would  be 
ended.  I  explained  the  smallness  of  my  establishment,  and 
no  men  servants — he  said  nothing  made  any  difference — 
that  to  be  with  Madame  who  had  the  eyes  of  his  grand- 
mother, and  his  fiancee,  would  be  enough.  I  had  to  put  him 
off  with  various  promises,  and  I  did  try  to  get  him  a  place, 
and  wrote  to  him,  and  he  to  me,  but  nothing  came  of  it. 
I  hope  by  this  time  he  is  married  to  the  sweetheart  of  his 
childhood,  and  settled  in  some  nice  little  wayside  inn  in 
Italy. 

We  went  to  the  Botanical  Garden  in  the  afternoon  and 
there  I  saw  a  most  fascinating  love  of  a  white  cockatoo  with 
the  most  original  way  of  captivating  hearts  ever  devised  by 
bird.  When  I  held  my  hand  palm  up  toward  him,  he  turned 
a  somersault  and  landed  on  his  back  in  my  hand  with  his 
legs  kicking  up  in  the  air,  and  actually  laughed  !  We  went 
to  the  Hague  the  next  morning  and  there  I  was  ill,  and 


332  I  MYSELF 

noticed  only  the  Dutch  blankets  as  light  as  thistledown  and 
delightfully  warm. 

At  Haarlem  we  heard  the  wonderful  organ  play,  and  at 
Antwerp  in  the  Rijks  Museum  I  made  a  great  discovery. 
Golf  was  played  in  1631,  for  a  portrait  of  a  young  girl,  by 
de  Geest,  in  a  full  length  figure  daintily  dressed,  holds  a 
golf  ball  in  one  hand,  and  a  golf  club  in  the  other.  It  hangs 
on  the  left  hand  side  of  the  gallery  almost  at  the  entrance. 
And  the  miles  of  pictures  and  my  stubborn  will  to  see  them 
put  me  in  bed  for  several  days,  Joan  of  Arc,  otherwise  Rose, 
saving  my  life  by  bringing  me  back  to  England  and  giving 
me  a  rest  cure.  And  I  read  in  the  lazy  hours  Mark  Twain's 
delightful  life  of  that  inspired  Virgin  Soldier,  Rose's  proto- 
type. It  was  Lord  Morris,  I  think,  who  said  the  only  two 
women  of  history  who  had  saved  their  country  were  Joan 
of  Arc  and  Kitty  O'Shea. 


'TIS  ALMOST  FAIRY  TIME 


CHAPTER  LX 

THE  LEPRECHAUN'S  POT  OF  GOLD 

"  Our  tokens  of  love  are  for  the  most  part  barbarous,  cold  and  life- 
less, they  do  not  represent  our  life.  The  only  gift  is  a  portion  of  thy- 
self— therefore  let  the  farmer  give  his  corn — the  miner  his  gem — the 
sailor  coral  and  shells — the  painter  his  picture  and  the  poet  his  poem." 

FOR  some  occult  reason,  from  Emerson's  many  pages 
only  this  charming  sentiment  remains  in  my  memory ; 
maybe,  that  one  day  it  was  to  have  a  deeper  meaning 
to  me.  In  my  childhood  my  belief  in  the  fairies  was  absolute. 
Mammy,  when  she  said  good-night,  was  always  cautioned  to 
leave  the  window  wide  open,  and  when  the  moonbeams  slanted 
into  my  room,  I  always  expected  to  see  a  cohort  of  fairies 
sliding  down  them,  towards  my  bed.  During  the  long,  warm, 
summer  afternoons,  I  often,  with  infinite  pains  and  hours  of 
work,  made  a  fairy  garden,  a  little  place  sweetly  prepared 
for  their  midnight  revels.  The  lake  was  a  doll's  beflowered 
washbowl,  well  set  into  the  earth,  lined  with  white  sand, 
filled  with  clean  spring  water,  and  wreathed  around  with 
forget-me-nots.  There  was  a  little  avenue  of  crepe  myrtle 
on  one  side,  a  flower  of  enchanting  appearance,  the  leaves  like 
bits  of  deep  rose-crinkled  crepe,  with  a  downy  golden  centre 
of  sandal  wood  fragrance,  and  on  the  other  side  big  stalks 
of  mignonette  arranged  with  great  precision,  while  the 
avenue  road  was  lavishly  paved  with  pearly  pebbles,  and 
at  the  end  came  the  chef  d'ouvre,  the  throne  of  the  fairy 
queen,  a  small  moss-covered  mound  scattered  over  with 
rose  leaves  red  and  white,  the  finest  roses  in  the  garden 
stuck  in  the  ground  and  nodding  behind  it,  and  a  special 
attention  to  the  queen  was  a  court  train  left  in  readiness  for 

333 


334  I  MYSELF 

her.  This  regal  garment  was  made  of  heartsease,  taking  as 
my  foundation  a  piece  of  thin  muslin,  and  sewing  the  flat 
flower  in  patches  of  purple  and  gold  on  either  side,  for  no 
self-respecting  fairy  queen  must  have  her  lining  showing ; 
and  the  last  thing  in  the  evening,  with  a  small  watering-pot, 
I  left  it  ah1  bejewelled  and  heavy  with  raindrops,  for  of  course 
fairies  never  take  cold.  And  the  fairies  never  forgot. 

With  life's  sad  experience  and  many  necessities,  the  fairy 
queen  has  ceased  to  be  my  favourite.  She  is  too  prosperous 
and  too  powerful.  She  has  a  kingdom  of  her  own  and  is 
independent  of  me,  so  my  heart  has  turned  to  the  Leprechaun, 
the  little  Irish  fairy  philosopher,  he  who  understands  the 
value  and  forgetfulness  of  work,  and  sets  a  practical  example 
himself  of  voluntary  industry ;  for  knowing  where  all  the 
crocks  of  gold  in  the  world  are,  he  lets  them  alone,  and  prefers 
to  sit  cross-legged,  with  his  cocked  hat  on  the  side  of  his  head, 
his  bit  of  a  dudeen  stuck  in  his  mouth,  and  by  industriously 
making  and  mending  the  fairy  shoes,  earning  his  honest 
bread,  rather  than  live  a  life  of  idleness  and  luxury.  He 
scorns  to  belong  to  the  vulgar  rich.  One  day  I  met  a 
Leprechaun.  He  didn't  in  the  least  look  like  one,  being  a 
grown-up,  and  in  ordinary  clothes.  No,  not  quite  that,  for 
he  wore  a  soft  slouch  hat,  a  long  old  faded  friendly  cloak, 
curious  rings  on  handsome  slender  hands,  and  no  gloves, 
although  the  weather  was  cold.  He  was  striding  along 
followed  by  a  beautiful  knowledgeable  sheep  dog,  but  I  recog- 
nized him  for  a  fairy  at  once.  The  Leprechaun's  face  was 
kind  and  gentle,  and  he  carried  all  the  crocks  of  gold,  as 
Johannes  Wolff  would  say,  "  widout  to  know  it  "  in  his  head. 
He  had  inherited  a  few  crocks,  so  he  was  in  no  hurry  about 
those  lying  fallow,  and  there  they  might  all  be  hidden  now, 
only  to  use  his  own  language,  I  "  browbeat  and  bulHed  him  " 
into  parting  with  a  little  crock,  which  took  the  form  of  a 
fairy  play.  He  has  many  more — his  mind  to  him  a  golden 
kingdom  is — whenever  he  chooses  to  give  to  the  world  his 
charming  dreams,  inspired  by  his  closest  friends,  "  the  stars, 
streams  and  moonbeams."  Unfortunately  his  pen  has  a 
powerful  rival  in  his  painter's  brush,  and  much  of  his  time  is 


THE  LEPRECHAUN'S  POT  OF  GOLD      335 

passed  in  his  studio  in  the  lovely  old-world  garden  of  his 
country  home.  I  wanted  to  be  his  neighbour,  but  he  frankly 
discouraged  me.  "  You  at  Witley  !  You  would  bore  your 
head  off  in  a  fortnight.  You  love  seeing  people ;  I  don't 
want  to  see  people.  You  like  brightness  and  variety ;  I  like 
dullness,  monotony,  and  silence.  You  like  company  ;  I  love 
to  be  alone."  But  he  is  never  alone,  his  satisfying  poetical 
thoughts  are  his  beautiful  companions,  while  a  happy  opti- 
mistic nature  like  his  knows  nothing  of  the  flight  from 
despair,  which  drives  human  beings  like  myself  to  the  weary- 
ing company  of  their  kind.  The  delicious  fairy  play  really 
grew  out  of  the  seed  of  "  Blue  Bell  Time,"  it  was  the  first  of 
the  many  songs  of  Graham  Robertson's  which  Frederick 
Norton  has  now  set  to  music.  When  he  of  the  faded  cloak 
with  Bob  (the  sheep  dog)  saw  me  off  at  the  pretty  seaside 
station  of  Sidmouth,  and  I  returned  on  a  cold,  wet,  spring 
day  to  London,  Frederic  Norton,  that  brilliant,  versatile, 
contrary,  delightful,  witty,  original  man  and  musical  genius 
dined  with  me  the  same  evening,  and  much  against  his  will 
I  read  "  Blue  Bell  Time  "  aloud  to  him.  I  love  reading 
aloud,  I  hate  being  read  to.  Frederic  Norton  is  in  the  same 
position.  When  I  put  the  book  down  he  took  it  up  and  looked 
at  it :  that  was  a  hopeful  sign.  When  he  went  home  he  put 
it  in  his  pocket.  When  he  came  again  he  sang  me  the  verses 
set  to  his  own  sylvan  melody.  "  The  stars,  streams,  and 
moonbeams  "  are  indeed  as  completely  his  in  music,  as  they 
are  Graham  Robertson's  in  poetry.  Then  I  asked  the  poet 
to  lunch,  for  even  poets  must  eat,  and  this  one  is  an  excellent 
housekeeper.  The  musician  came  too,  and  after  the  meal 
I  begged  Frederic  Norton  for  a  song,  and  as  the  story  books 
say,  "  he  struck  a  few  chords  "  and  began.  I  saw  Graham 
Robertson  lift  his  head  and  listen,  surprised,  and  greatly 
pleased,  and  at  the  finish  of  the  fairy-like  accompaniment  he 
said  :  "  Mr  Norton,  your  music  has  given  my  little  nonsense 
verses  a  new  meaning."  Perhaps  at  that  moment  the  happy 
idea  shot  into  my  mind  of  these  two  making  a  musical 
sylvan  play  together.  When  I  spoke  of  it  to  the  poet  he 
completely  scorned  my  suggestion  and  said,  "  I  cannot  do  it ; 


336  I  MYSELF 

what  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head  ?  "  But  I  hammered 
away,  and  every  time  I  saw  him  asked,  "  When  is  the  fairy 
play  to  begin  ?  "  It  didn't  begin.  Then  a  trouble,  and  an 
uncertainty,  came  to  worry  me,  and  I  made  an  appeal  to  him. 
"  I  want  distraction  and  an  interest  badly,  and  I  am  much 
too  distracted  to  give  it  to  myself.  You  must  do  it  for  me. 
Do,  do,  write  the  fairy  play."  This  plan  worked,  and  one 
morning  he  came  with  the  beginning  of  the  first  act  and  read 
it.  I  listened  with  delight  and  enthusiasm,  but  couldn't 
help  thinking  all  the  same,  how  much  better  I  could  have 
read  it  myself.  From  that  time  the  play  made  steady 
progress.  He  could  not  go  to  his  studio  to  paint  just  then, 
being  occupied  with  a  dear  invalid  who  was  very  ill  at  home, 
so  he  wrote,  and  from  time  to  time  a  little  bundle  of  manu- 
script was  posted  to  me,  and  "  Pinkie  and  the  Fairies  " 
became  my  greatest  interest  and  consolation.  A  kind  friend 
lent  me  a  little  house  at  Littlehampton  that  summer,  and  I 
went  down  one  afternoon  to  find  it  in  complete  order,  with 
even  my  first  dinner  of  a  country  chicken  and  fresh  green 
peas  all  provided.  Two  American  friends  came  to  share  my 
solitude,  and  one  day  the  very  last  pages  of  Pinkie  arrived. 
I  wrote  immediately  to  Frederic  Norton  and  bade  him 
come  for  the  week-end.  I  could  scarcely  wait  to  tell  him  the 
fairy  play  was  finished,  and  to  ask  him  if  he  would  do  the 
music.  He  instantly  and  promptly  refused,  saying  :  "I 
must  write  music  for  publishers,  I  can't  afford  to  sit  down  and 
write  a  whole  fairy  play  that  may  never  be  produced.  You 
are  the  most  unpractical,  unreasonable  woman,  you  expect 
a  fellow  to  do  anything  you  suggest  without  thinking." 

I  listened  sweetly  to  the  lecture,  never  for  a  moment  losing 
heart,  and  got  off  as  quickly  as  possible  to  other  subjects. 

The  next  day  was  warm  and  sunshiny.  After  breakfast 
we  sat  in  the  garden  reading  the  Sunday  papers,  when  I 
asked  Frederic  Norton  to  read  "  Pinkie  "  out  aloud.  He 
swallowed  the  bait  without  suspicion,  and  read  it  from  the 
first  line  to  the  last.  As  I  knew  it  by  heart  it  wasn't  necessary 
for  me  to  listen  closely,  being  occupied  with  the  same  reflec- 
tion with  which  I  had  heard  the  author  read  it,  namely,  how 


THE  LEPRECHAUN'S  POT  OF  GOLD      337 

much  better  I  could  have  done  it  myself ;  but  I  rose  to  the 
situation  and  encored  the  poem  I  love  the  best,  the  sleeping 
beauty's  song,  "  The  wells  of  sleep."    (How  charmingly  Viola 
Tree  sang  it  and  looked  it !)     Frederic  Norton  said  at  the 
finish,  "  There's  no  doubt  about  it,  that  chap  has  charm  in 
every  line  he  writes,  he's  a  wonder."     I  agreed,  but  was 
reticent.     The  next  morning  as  Frederic  Norton  was  start- 
ing for  the  train  he  turned  back  and  said,  "  Just  give  me  the 
fairy  play,  will  you,  I'll  take  another  look  at  it  going  to  town." 
Singularly  enough  it  was  near  at  hand.     I  heard  nothing 
for  a  fortnight,  then  a  friend,  himself  very  musical,  wrote 
me   from   London,   "  I   spent  the  afternoon  with   Norton 
yesterday.     He  was  gaunt,  unshorn  and  unshaven,  and  has 
not  been  out  of  the  house  for  days,  but  he  has  written  nine 
numbers  of  the  fairy  play  and  you  will  love  them.     His 
opening  theme   for  Pinkie  is   a   five-finger   exercise    with 
orchestral  accompaniment,  while  '  Day  was  born  a  daffodil, 
day  dies  a  rose  '  is  set  to  really  exquisite  music."     When  I 
returned  to  London,  Frederic   Norton   said :    "  The   thing 
got  hold  of  me,  I  couldn't  help  it ;  I  don't  care  now  whether 
it's  produced  or  not,  I'm  writing  for  the  pure  love  of  it,"  and 
in  that  spirit  it  was  finished.     I  was  a  bit  anxious  until  the 
poet  heard  it,  for  he  had  very  definite  ideas  of  the  kind  of 
music  he  wanted,  being  musical  himself;  and  as  Frederic 
Norton  is  more  than  usually  sensitive  to  criticism,  I  feared  a 
few  arguments  on  both  sides,  and  then  what  would  happen  ? 
But  there  were  none.     We  three  met  one  afternoon  at  Sand- 
hills and  Frederic  Norton  played  all  the  music  on  the  white 
piano,  which  he  loathes.    He  says  a  white  piano  has  no  soul. 
And  the  poet  loved  the  music  and  the  musician  loved  the 
poetry,  and  except  for  the  white  piano  all  was  harmony. 
But  the  music  was  only  in  Frederic   Norton's   head   and 
fingers :  he  never  put  down  a  note  of  it  and  went  off  to  America 
and  stayed  there  for  months,  with  it  still  in  his  head.   And  the 
fine,  large,  brindled  mosquitoes  of  my  native  land,  who  love 
the  stranger  within  their  gates,  stung  him  almost  into  his 
grave.     Anyhow  they  gave  him  a  slow,  low,   exhausting 
fever.    Then  Pinkie  and  the  fairies  called    him  back    to 


338  I  MYSELF 

England,  and  ill  as  he  was,  he  had  all  the  music  to  write  and 
orchestrate  in  a  very  short  space  of  time  ;  for  Elf  Twinkle 
had  whispered  in  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree,  and  he  had 
suddenly  and  irrevocably  lost  his  heart  to  Pinkie,  and  it  was 
going  to  be  done  at  His  Majesty's  Theatre  con  amore  with  the 
splendid  caste  and  the  great  success  that  everybody  knows 
by  now,  and  this  is  how  I  became  godmother  to  the  fairies, 
and  how  at  last  they  rewarded  me  for  the  love  and  faith  I 
had,  and  still  have  in  them.  When  the  poet  refused  to  share 
my  enthusiasm  for  his  work,  I  sent — "  unbeknownst "  to 
him — a  copy  of  the  book  to  W.  L.  Courtney  of  the  "  Daily 
Telegraph,"  that  most  generous  and  big-hearted  of  critics, 
and  later  received  this  encouraging  letter  : — 

"  DEAR  MRS  O'CONNOR, — I  have  read  '  Pinkie  and  the 
Fairies  '  and  find  it  the  most  charming  thing  which  has  come 
under  my  notice  for  years.  But  that  is  not  enough,  I  place 
myself  at  your  entire  disposal  to  assist  in  getting  it  produced. 
Is  it  an  indiscretion  to  ask  the  author's  name  ?  With  kind 
regards. — Yours  sincerely,  W.  L.  COURTNEY  " 

How  kind  !  I  had  only  asked  for  his  opinion,  he  gave  it 
and  so  much  more  !  So  the  play  then  had  a  godfather,  as  well 
as  a  godmother,  and  surely  a  curtain  never  went  up  on  a  pro- 
duction so  surrounded  with  good  wishes,  and  love,  and 
tenderness,  and  enthusiasm,  as  "  Pinkie  and  the  Fairies." 
Every  time  I  read  it  to  a  friend,  which  was  reasonably  often, 
Pinkie  added  a  fresh  lover  to  her  list,  and  the  lovers  only 
loved  her  the  more  when  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree  added 
his  magic  touch  to  that  of  the  poet  and  the  musician,  making 
a  happy  trilogy  of  genius,  and  on  December  igth,  Pinkie 
not  only  completely  conquered  her  admirers,  but  the  public, 
and  His  Majesty's  Theatre  was  filled  by  an  apprecia- 
tive, enthusiastic,  laughing,  applauding  audience.  It  has 
been  revived,  and  has  every  appearance  of  becoming 
like  the  primrose,  the  daisy  and  the  buttercup,  a  hardy 
annual. 


THE   LEPRECHAUN   AND   THE  GARDEN   OF   PINKIK  AND  THE   FAIRIES 


THE  LEPRECHAUN'S  POT  OF  GOLD      339 


BLUEBELL  TIME 

I  thought  that  the  grass  was  green, 
To-day  it  has  all  turned  blue, 

Had  anyone  told  me — even  a  queen — 
I  would  not  have  thought  it  true. 

I  wonder  if  I'm  awake, 
Those  trees  never  used  to  grow 

Bathing  their  feet  in  a  deep  blue  lake — 
I  can't  make  it  out,  you  know. 

I  always  thought  of  the  sky 

High  lifted  over  my  head, 
So  please  can  you  tell  me  the  reason  why 

It's  under  my  feet  instead  ? 

But  the  Bellmen  of  Elfin  Town 
Ring  out  their  delicate  chime  : 

The  world  has  not  turned  upside  down — 
It  is  only — Bluebell  Time  ! 


THE   WELLS   OF   SLEEP 

As  I  leaned  over  the  Slumber  Well 

Where  the  wild  white  poppies  grow, 
The  heart  from  my  bosom  slipped  and  fell 

Into  the  depths  below. 
And  the  waters  cool  of  that  healing  pool 

So  stilled  the  throb  and  the  pain, 
That  my  heart  sank  deep  in  the  Wells  of  Sleep 

And  never  came  up  again, 

For  Hushaway  Honey  Dew-drips  ! 

The  slumberous  Hydromel. 
From  wild  white  poppies  that  brush  the  lips 
Of  the  way-worn  pilgrim  who  stoops  and  sips 

A  draft  from  Lullabye  Well. 

So  still  I  drone  like  a  drowsy  bee, 
Where  the  wild  white  poppies  weep, 


340  I  MYSELF 

And  my  heart  that  is  drowned  looks  up  to  me, 
Up  through  the  Waters  of  Sleep. 

Drowned  it  lies  with  its  dream-dark  eyes, 
And  a  face  so  like  mine  own, 

Image  of  me  that  is  held  in  fee 
By  the  Dreamland  King  on  his  throne. 

And  the  Hushaway  Honey  Dew-drips, 

The  slumberous  Hydromel ! 
Closing  the  eye  and  sealing  the  lip, 
Stilling  the  frame  to  the  finger-tip, 
As  the  wild  white  poppy  leaves  fall  and  slip 
Into  the  Lullabye  Well. 


CHAPTER   LXI 

MY  STEPMOTHER  FATE 

"  It  is  not  in  the  shipwreck  or  the  strife 
We  feel  benumbed,  and  wish  to  be  no  more, 
But  in  the  after-silence  on  the  shore, 
Where  all  is  lost,  except  a  little  life." 

BYRON 

WHATEVER  I  most  dislike  in  life  has  been  freely 
handed  out  to  me  by  my  unrelenting  stepmother, 
Fate.  A  short  stature  (when  I  wanted  to  be 
tall),  freckles  (when  I  wanted  to  be  plain  white),  irregular 
features  (when  I  wanted  a  classical  profile),  a  sort  of  general 
failure  all  round  and  a  succession  of  tragedies  (when  I 
wanted  a  quiet  life),  while  a  very  moderate  success  in  any 
one  direction  would  have  filled  me  with  gratitude  and 
happiness.  To  have  been  the  mother  of  many  children, 
or  a  woman  with  a  career :  a  novelist,  a  playwright,  or  an 
actress  of  repute,  or  a  woman  with  a  fortune  great  enough 
to  benefit  the  world.  But  my  life  has  been  a  conspicuous 
failure,  partly  through  an  intermittent  will,  but  more  largely 
in  living  through  the  lives  of  others — and  when  it  is  too 
late,  and  husband  or  children  find  other  interests,  women 
like  myself  are  cast  aside,  and  life  becomes  empty  and 
valueless.  I  have  loved  too  much,  and  given  too  much, 
until  the  value  has  ceased.  Only  the  most  generous  and 
noble  natures  can  stand  continual  spoiling.  I  have  always 
felt  that  everybody  near  me — men,  women,  children, 
servants,  and  dogs — should,  at  no  matter  what  cost  to 
myself,  be  made  happy ;  and  a  wrong  sort  of  pride  has 

34' 


342  I  MYSELF 

governed  me — I  have  never  exacted  my  proper  due,  and 
have  taken  only  that  which  has  been  voluntary.  What  proud 
folly  !  Empires,  States,  and  families,  would  all  come  to 
grief  through  such  Arcadian  sentiments. 

Lady  R.  once  discussed  this  question  at  length  with  me 
when  I  dropped  into  tea.  We  lived  near  each  other  in 
Chelsea — she,  in  a  charming  house  on  the  embankment — 
and  I  found  her  sitting  in  her  boudoir.  Such  a  pretty 
room  it  was,  the  walls  of  dark  green  hung  with  a  number 
of  delightful  fairy  pictures  by  the  late  Richard  Doyle  (Dicky 
Doyle).  One  in  particular  I  remember  :  a  huge  blackthorn 
tree  with  a  ring  of  fairies  madly,  wildly,  dancing  round  it, 
in  the  early  glimmer  of  a  clear  bluish,  greyish,  whitish, 
pinkish  dawn,  and  you  felt  in  another  moment  the  ring 
would  break,  and  the  fairies  disperse  with  the  night.  The 
end  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  a  white  cupboard  filled 
with  gaily  decorated  old  china,  bird  cages  tenanted  by  prize 
canaries,  and  singing  bullfinches  hung  from  the  ceiling  ; 
the  long  French  windows  disclosed  a  near-by  view  of  the 
Thames,  and  across  the  water  appeared  the  tall  trees  and 
the  fresh  greenery  of  Battersea  Park. 

Dicky  Doyle,  by  the  way,  visited  the  R.s  some  twenty 
years  or  more  in  the  country.  He  was  an  acquired  taste, 
and  after  six  months  or  so,  Lady  R.  rather  wished  him  to 
go,  but  later  on  she  said  if  he  had  gone  she  would  have 
asked  him  to  come  back.  These  long  visits  still  exist  in  the 
hospitable  South,  but  even  there  they  are  growing  less 
frequent. 

What  a  kind  and  tender  heart  Lady  R.  had.  On  the  day 
of  which  I  speak  she  had  been  sitting  with  an  old  friend 
who  was  dying,  not  in  her  arms,  but  at  her  neck,  since  the 
early  morning. 

He  was  a  much  beloved  aged  bullfinch  from  whom  she 
had  never  been  separated.  Even  when  she  made  country 
house  visits  he  was  taken  with  her,  and  hung  in  his  cage  in 
her  bedroom :  he  knew  her  step,  and  always  called  her  to 
hurry  when  he  heard  it.  He  had  been  growing  weaker 


MY  STEPMOTHER  FATE  343 

all  day,  and  sitting  there  with  the  poor  little  bunch  of 
stricken  feathers  at  her  throat,  we  both  felt  moved  to  talk 
with  affectionate  candour  of  many  things,  and  of  my  theory 
of  wanting  only  what  was  voluntary. 

She  said  she  had  felt  exactly  the  same  throughout  her 
own  life,  but  had  lived  long  enough  to  know  it  was  a  mis- 
taken view — that  every  woman  should  exact  what  was  her 
right  and  due.  Such  a  woman  was  valued,  not  the  one  who 
waited  for  voluntary  tributes  of  affection.  The  world 
eventually  passed  her  by,  and  at  the  end  she  was  generally 
left  alone  and  sorrowing.  In  her  case  this  had  not 
happened,  for  she  was  surrounded  by  love  and  troops 
of  friends,  she  had  escaped  the  result  of  her  too  generous 
temperament. 

I  went  home  filled  with  good  and  dignified  resolutions, 
but  I  let  two  of  the  servants  go  to  the  theatre  the  same 
evening ;  and  as  the  front  door  key  had  been  mislaid  I 
sat  up,  though  mortally  tired,  until  twelve  o'clock  to  let 
them  in. 

Undoubtedly  one  of  the  healthiest  tenets  of  Christian 
science  is  to  pay  more  attention  to  yourself,  and  less  to 
other  people ;  never  to  rely  on  weak  human  creatures,  nor 
to  expect  too  much  of  them,  but  to  get  your  happiness 
through  God  and  self -reformation.  The  happiest  women 
are  those  who  are  adored — the  unhappiest  those  who  adore. 
I  belong  to  the  latter  class.  Mrs  M'Kenna,  the  mother  of 
seven  children,  sons  and  daughters,  was  a  notable  example 
of  the  former.  She  was  a  small,  elegant-looking  woman, 
wearing  her  hair  in  bunches  of  curls  at  each  side  of  her  face, 
which  was  somewhat  stern  unless  she  smiled,  then  it  was 
enchanting.  Her  voice  was  a  deep  contralto,  like  that  of 
Queen  Victoria,  and  she  had  an  air  of  great  authority  that 
even  her  children  of  quite  mature  age  never  thought  of 
disputing.  Reginald  M'Kenna,  now  First  Lord  of  the 
Admiralty,  was  his  mother's  darling,  and  he  decided,  for 
her  sake,  not  to  marry  while  she  lived,  as  a  separation  from 
her  would  have  caused  her  pain — although  he  would  not 


344  I  MYSELF 

have  left  her  alone,  as  another  son,  Ernest  M'Kenna,  of  a 
charming,  gay  disposition,  and  equally  devoted  to  his  mother, 
formed  one  of  the  household.  What  is  this  mysterious 
compelling  power  that  to  the  end  of  a  parent's  long  life 
makes  children  obedient  ? 

I  believe  it  to  be  a  latent  sternness,  a  severe  and  constant 
force  of  character,  that  every  now  and  then  appears — the 
iron  hand  within  the  velvet  glove  is  there.  I  heard  a  mother, 
who  is  adored  and  cherished  by  her  family,  say  :  "If  one 
of  my  children  did  a  disgraceful  thing,  I  would  never  see 
him  again."  And  she  meant  it.  Another  more  tender 
mother  would  follow  her  ungrateful  child  to  the  prison  gate. 
We  all  know  that  heartbreaking  recitation  of  Yvette  Guilbert 
where  the  son  has  killed  his  mother  at  the  request  of  his 
sweetheart,  and  holds  her  dead  heart  in  his  hand.  Suddenly 
he  slips,  and  the  heart  speaks  to  give  warning,  saying  : 
"  Don't  fall,  dear  son,  and  hurt  yourself." 

It  is  the  unselfish  love  of  a  mother  for  her  children  that 
gives  one  faith  in  God  and  the  immortality  of  the  soul. 
If  the  love  of  one  human  being  for  another  is  so  divine, 
then  nothing  short  of  Divinity  inspires  it. 

These  reflections  are  rambling  away  from  the  blows 
which  my  unkind  stepmother,  Fate,  has  given  me.  Besides 
freckles,  failures,  and  tragedies,  she  has  dealt  me  a  fair  share 
of  illnesses  and  diseases  of  a  singular  abhorrence  to  me,  one 
of  them  being  a  closed  tear-duct  which  caused  a  constant 
trickling  of  the  eye  for  several  years  (and  after  three  opera- 
tions is  now  quite  cured  by  a  French  salve  given  to  me  in 
the  first  instance  by  that  greatly  gifted,  and  wonderful 
musician  and  charming  and  lovable  woman,  Louise  Douste. 
It  has  been  in  existence  since  the  time  of  Louis  XVI., 
and  is  a  most  remarkable  remedy).  Recurrent  bronchitis 
annoys  me ;  and  gout,  too,  which  I  always  dreaded,  is  my 
frequent  companion,  though  I  am  not  nearly  so  great  a 
sufferer  from  it  as  Lady  Colin  Campbell,  that  splendid 
beauty  and  most  excellent  journalist,  who  is  now  held  a 
close  prisoner  by  pain.  How  well  I  recollect  the  first  time 


MY  STEPMOTHER  FATE  345 

I  ever  saw  her  !  It  was  at  a  dinner  party  given  by  Mrs 
Campbell  Praed,  whose  very  successful  novel,  "  Nadine," 
had  just  created  something  of  a  sensation.  It  was 
a  thrilling  book,  and  the  interest  was  enhanced  by  the 
romance  of  its  inspiration,  which  was,  that  in  her  buoyant 
youth  a  very  remarkable,  beautiful,  and  popular  girl  had 
made  one  of  a  country  house  party  ;  her  lover  had  suddenly 
died  at  midnight  in  her  room ;  and  she  had  (for  she  was  of 
tall  and  powerful  physique)  dragged  her  tragic  burden 
along  the  moonlit  corridor,  and  in  the  morning  he  was 
found  sitting  in  his  chair  many  hours  dead.  One  of  the 
guests,  hearing  in  the  dead  silence  of  the  night  a  weird, 
scraping,  muffled  sound,  looked  out  and  saw  a  tall  girl  with 
her  face  set  in  a  strange  and  terrible  mask,  dragging 
along  a  dead  and  stiffening  body,  the  moonbeams  slanting 
down  upon  the  glassy,  wide-opened  eyes.  He  said  he  shut 
his  door  and  prayed,  but  apparently  he  talked  too,  for  the 
secret  became  known.  Anyhow,  the  world  admired  the 
young  lady's  stoical  self-control  and  courage,  and  later  she 
married  a  great  name  and  a  great  fortune,  became  the 
mother  of  many  children  and  grandchildren,  and  lived 
happy  ever  after. 

Lady  Colin  and  I  discussed  "  Nadine  "  and  many  other 
things,  and  were  from  that  moment  friends.  She  saw,  of 
course,  my  very  apparent  admiration  for  her  beauty,  charm 
and  intelligence.  She  was  very  dark  ;  her  figure  was  perfect — 
tall,  broad  shoulders,  a  naturally  lissom,  slender  waist, 
round,  sloping  hips,  and  in  all  her  movements  the  grace  of 
a  Spaniard. 

She  wore  a  closely  fitting  princess  dress  of  lace  and  jet, 
a  string  of  pearls  around  her  throat,  a  tiny  golden  key 
depending  from  it  (she  wears  that  key  still,  I  wonder  what 
tender  secret  it  guards),  and  on  her  bodice  a  great  bunch 
of  mauve  orchids.  Now,  instead  of  the  orchids  on  her 
breast  this  cheerful  invalid,  who  never  leaves  her  house, 
should  carry  the  Victoria  Cross  in  recognition  of  life's  con- 
tinual battle,  for  she  bears  her  suffering  with  a  courage, 


346  I  MYSELF 

an  equanimity,  and  a  patience  that  are  worthy  of  the 
bravest  soldier. 

We  women,  most  of  us,  need  all  these  qualities — courage, 
equanimity,  and  patience  in  reserve.  But  I  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  what  we  do  not  need  is  "  proper 
pride."  How  much  better  the  world  would  be  without 
it.  Many  of  us  have  more  than  our  fair  share  of  proper, 
justifiable,  or  false  pride.  And  we  are  all  ashamed  of 
something  or  other,  and  contrariwise  it  is  very  often  the 
thing  of  which  we  should  be  most  proud.  I  have  never 
been  ashamed  of  poverty,  but  always  of  unhappiness. 
To  be  bankrupt  of  happiness  :  that  indeed  is  a  poverty  so 
bitter,  it  must  ever  be  concealed  from  the  world. 

And  I  have  always  attempted  to  play  the  role  of  a  happy 
and  successful  woman,  but  lately  a  sad  independence  has 
come  to  me,  and  I  will  play  my  part  no  more. 

"  I  will  instruct  my  sorrow  to  be  proud. 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  its  owner  stout. 
Here  I  and  sorrow  sit." 

And  I  have  a  hope,  that  by  making  sorrow  a  friend,  and 
not  trying  to  run  away  from  it,  and  cheat  it,  and  defy  it, 
and  elude  it,  peace  may  come  to  me  at  last. 

And  it  is  on  its  way.  This  present  life,  which  used  to  be 
the  only  thing,  has  lost  its  importance.  For  quite  lately 
a  surety,  a  sign,  a  token,  came  to  me  of  my  soul's  separate- 
ness  from  the  body.  I  felt  it  flutter  in  my  breast,  and  know 
that  it  will  live  through  all  eternities.  .  .  . 

Circumstances  change  one's  tastes  and  desires.  My 
once  passionate  love  of  home,  now  that  I  am  homeless, 
is  passing,  travel  takes  me  out  of  myself  and  the  happier 
past.  In  a  hotel,  when  loneliness  submerges  me,  and 
even  tempts  me  on  occasion  "  to  sleep  and  wake  no 
more,"  I  can  ring  the  telephone  bell,  and  ask  the  hotel 
clerk  what's  o'clock — and  if  insomnia,  as  it  so  often 
does,  keeps  me  in  its  bitter  grip  all  through  the  night,  and 


MY  STEPMOTHER  FATE  347 

memory,  the  Lord  of  Hell,  holds  full  sway,  the  silence  can 
be  broken.  In  a  certain  hotel  where  I  often  stay,  the  night 
clerk  is  a  person  of  imagination,  and  when  I  ask  the  time, 
he  answers  comfortingly,  "  Twelve  o'clock  and  all's  well !  " 
or  "  Two  o'clock  and  all's  well !  "  "  Four  o'clock  and  all's 
well !  " 

So,  good-bye  to  you  who  have  skimmed  these  pages.  May 
the  clock  strike  happy  hours  in  your  own  home — blessed 
word — and  may  all  be  well  with  you  ! 


INDEX 


ABERDEEN,  LADY,  152 
Adler,  Dr,  278 
Agnew,  Mary,  105-8 
Alexander,  George,  314 
Allen,  Grant,  240 
Angele,  304 

Arnold,  Sir  Edwin,  253-4 
Ashburnham,  Lord,  224-6 
Atkinson,  Dr,  39 

—  Ellen,  39 

BAKER,  DR,  25-6,  47 

Ballantine,  Walter,  226-7 

Barrett,  Wilson,  301-2 

Barrie,  J.  M.,  265,  291 

Bates,  Wm.,  7-9 

Beale,  Mrs,  50-5 

Beecher-Tilden  Trial,  149 

Beerbohm,  Max,  203-4,  29°~3 

Birrell,  Mrs,  21-2 

Bjornson,  Bjornsterne,  231-2 

Black,  Mr  and  Mrs  Wm.,  186-7,  189 

Blouet,  Paul,  244 

Borthwick,  see  Glenesk 

Braddon,  see  Maxwell 

Bright,  John,  81,  256 

Brigit,  see  M'Kenna 

Brookfield,  Mrs,  58 

Browning,  Oscar,  246 

Bryan,  Hon.  C.  F.,  95 

"  Buffalo  Bill,"  see  Cody 

Burdett-Coutts,  Baroness,  165,  168, 

170,  172,  241 

Burleson,  Hon.  Albert,  223 
Burne- Jones,  Sir  E.,  189-90 
Burnham,  Lord,  309 
Byles,  Mrs,  258 

CAMERON,  DON,  79 
Campbell,  George,  129 

—  Lady  Archibald,  184 

—  Lady  Colin,  344-5 

—  Mrs  S.  P.,  243 

Campbell -Bannerman,  Sir  H.,  291 
Carlsruhe,  202 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  280 
Carnegie,  Andrew,  211 
Carter,  Chief  Justice,  89 
Charlotte,  47 


Chart,  Mrs  Nye,  187 

Cheatham,  Miss,  268 

Christiania,  230 

Churchill,  Lady  Randolph,  165 

Clark,  Daniel,  14 

Clarke,  Max,  146-7 

—  Mrs,  146-7 

Cody,  Colonel,  27-8,  191 

Coles,  Mrs,  see  Roosevelt 

Conant,  Mr,  118,  179 

Corcoran,  Mr,  69-70,  92 

Courtney,  W.  L.,  338 

Craigie,  Mrs,  258-61 

Crawford,  Mrs,  149 

Crewe,  Lord,  250,  252 

Croome,  Sir  Halliday,  270,  275,  278 

DAVIS,  JEFFERSON,  100-1 
Day,  Mrs,  141 

—  Elizabeth,  141 

Deems,  Mr  and  Mrs  Frank,  93 
De  Lara,  I.,  168-9 
Dene,  Dorothy,  184 
Dillon,  John,  232 
Douglas,  George,  81-4 
Douste,  Louise.  344 
Doyle,  Richard,  342 

—  Sir  A.  Conan,  266 
Ducey,  Father,  131-3 
Duval,  Major,  6 

EDWARDES,  GEORGE,  314 

Eli,  1 8 

Evans,  Admiral,  69 

—  Dick,  69 

FAIRFAX,  LETTICE,  290 
Field,  Eugene,  245-7 
Fiske,  Mrs  Bradley,  115-6 
Fortescue,  Miss,  185 
Foster,  James,  267 
Frederic,  Harold,  178-9,  238 
Friendship,  Thoughts  on,  149-51 

GAINES,  MRS,  14-5 
Georgetown  Convent,  59-61 
Gill,  Mr,  205 
Gillette,  Dan,  66 

—  Dr  Walter,  133,  135-6,  146 

349 


350 


I  MYSELF 


Gladstone,  W.  E.,  182,  207,  224, 

246 

Glenesk,  Lord,  238-9 
Gould,  Sir  F.  C.,  127,  254-5 
Govett,  Mrs,  181 
Grahame,  Kenneth,  186,  264-5 
Grant,  General,  79 
Green,  Mr,  93 

Grieg,  Mr  and  Mrs  E.,  227-8 
Guilbert,  Yvette,  344 
Guthrie,  Anstey,  243-4 

HACKNEY,  MABEL,  see   Irving,  Mrs 

J-*. 

Hall,  Gertrude,  298-9 
Hardy,  Thomas,  168,  186 
Harper,  Joseph,  115-8 
Harris,  Joel  Chandler,  120-7 
Harte,  Bret,  250-2 
Hawtrey,  Charles,  314 
Hayes,  Frank,  41,  43-4 

—  Matthew,  29 

—  Mrs,  39-41 

—  Nannie,  43 
Hayne,  Seale,  311-2 
Healy,  Tim,  216 
Hecht,  Max,  241 
Heidelberg,  200 
Height,  Amy,  290 
Henniker,  Mrs,  250 
Hester,  1-5 
Hobbes,  see  Craigie 
Hodgson-Burnett,  Mrs,  250,  252 
Holiday,  Henry,  189 
Holland,  318-32 

Howard,  Florida,  52 

—  Francis,  102-3,  281-6,  325 
Hunt,  Richard,  in 
Hurlbert,  W.  H.,  109-14 
Hutchinson,  A.  S.,  262-4 
Hynes,  Miss  Polly,  6,  30 

IBSEN,  H.,  230 

Irish  Party,  state  of,  232-5 

Irving,  Sir  Henry,  297,  300 

—  Laurence,  290,  299-300 

—  Mrs  Laurence,  300 

"  JACK  THE  RIPPER,"  214 
James,  Colonel,  191 

—  Henry,  293-6 

Jeune,  Lady,  158,  169,  181,  243-4, 
306-7 

—  Sir  F.,  168,  307 
Johnson,  Mary,  158 
Journalists,  Soc.  of  Women,  309-11, 

313 


KELLOGG,  MRS,  69 
Keogh,  Judge,  178 
Kirkland,  General,  147-8 
Kreuznach,  178 

LABOUCHERE,      DORA,      see     Mar- 
quesa  di  Rudini 

—  Henry,  81-2,    161-4,  210-4,  224> 
255-6,  264,  325 

—  Mrs  H.,  160-1,  168,  183-5,  I9I-3> 
210,  255-6,  280,  290-1,  297 

Lane,  Miss  Harriet,  66 
Lang,  Andrew,  246 
Langtry,  Mrs,  163 
Leighton,  Sir  Frederic,  184 
Levy,  Mr,  188 
Liszt,  F.,  257 
Littlehampton,  336 
Lowther,  Claude,  325 

—  Mrs  Frances,  55,  325 
Lucy,  Sir  H.  W.,  279 
Lussan,  Zelie  de,  28 

MACKAY,  MRS,  311 
Mallory,  Dr,  104 
Mandeville,  Lady,  in 
Manning,  Cardinal,  175-6,  286 
Mansfield,  Richard,  109 
Marlborough,  Duke    and    Duchess 

of,  255 

Marriages,  Anglo-American,  150-2 
Marsh,  Mr,  22-3 
Marshall,  Luxmore,  185 
Marston,  Philip  Burke,  236-7 
Mason,  Captain,  66 
Massingham,  H.  W.,  211,  220-1 
Maude,  Cyril,  314 
"  Max  Gladstone  O'Connor,"  172-7, 

295-6 

Maxwell,  Mr  and  Mrs,  161,  325 
Maynard,  Captain,  9 
M'Carthy,  Charlotte,  159-60, 164,278 

—  Justin    57-8,    142-3,     155,    158, 
163-5,  278 

—  Justin  Huntly,  142-3,  165 
Meredith,  George,  281 
Merivale,  Mr  and  Mrs,  180 
Milbanke,  Sir  F.  and  Lady,  223-4 
Miles,  Frank,  162-3 

Mitchell,  Colonel,  142-3,  145 
M'Kenna,  Brigit,  133-40 

—  Ernest,  344 

—  Mrs,  343 

—  Reginald,  203,  343 
Moore,  Frankfort,  239 

—  George,  248-50 

—  J.  T,  80 

—  Miss,  141-2 


INDEX 


35i 


Morgan,  Franzie,  75-7 

—  Mr  and  Mrs,  75-6 
Morley,  John,  211,  214 
Morris,  Lewis,  168 

-  Lord,  332 

—  William,  301 
Mortimer,  Rose,  315-26 
Moulton,  Mrs  L.  C.,  236-7 
Murphy,  Dr  P.,  285 

—  Helen,  285-6 
Murray,  David,  288-9 

NORMAN,  SIR  HENRY,  157 
Norreys,  Rose,  184 
Norton,  Frederic,  335-7 
Norway,  227-30 

OAKLEY  LODGE,  236 
Oberammergau,  287 
O'Brien,  Mr  and  Mrs  Wm.,  232-3 
O'Connor,  Mary,  see  O'Malley 

—  T.    P.,     142-5,    165,     173,    205, 
229,  232,  308-9 

O'Malley,  Mrs  Wm.,  155 
O'Reilly,  J.  B.,  246 
O'Rell,  see  Blouet 
O'Shea,  Captain,  205-9,  232 


PAGE,  THOMAS  NELSON,  128-9,  227, 
229,  238,  306 

Palmer,  A.  M.,  85-6,  109 

Parke,  Ernest,  211,  216 

Parker,  Dr,  130-1 

Parnell,  Charles,  205-9,  214,  232-5 

Partridge,  The  Misses,  65-6 

Paschal,  Elizabeth,  early  years, 
i-io ;  defence  of  slaves,  16-24  ; 
visit  to  a  circus,  35-6 ;  dolls, 
36-8  ;  school  days,  59-62  ;  dtbut, 
66-71  ;  first  marriage,  70-1  ; 
birth  of  a  son,  74-5  ;  War  Office 
work,  79-80 ;  the  stage,  85-6 ; 
New  York,  93-102  ;  convent 
life,  103  ;  journalism,  109-11  ; 
literary  reader,  116-8  ;  illness, 
135-6  ;  meeting  with  "  T.  P.," 
142  ;  New  York  again,  146  ; 
marriage  and  life  in  London, 
153-71  ;  Germany,  178-82,  195-9; 
a  .  General  Election,  205  ;  Stone- 
cutter Street,  216-27;  Chelsea, 
236 ;  The  Lost  Leader,  241-3  ; 
Lady  from  Texas,  269  ;  illness, 
270-8,  313,  318;  Madame  Del- 
phine,  290 ;  the  music-hall,  314-6  ; 
Germany  and  Holland,  318-27 


Paschal,    Judge,    11-5,    24,    28-32, 
63-4,  85-91 

—  Marcellus,  20 

—  Mrs,  46-7,  50 
Paul,  Herbert,  250 
Phelan,  James,  D.,  266-7 
Piccolellis,  Marquesa,  81 
Pinero,  Sir  A.  W.,  252-3 
Pinkie  and  the  Fairies,  335-7 
Playfair,  Sir  Lyon,  224 

"  Pomp,"  32 

Ponsonby,  Claude,  185 

Pope's  Villa  at  Twickenham,  160-2 

Praed,  Mrs  Campbell,  345 

Pulitzer,  Mr,  115 

RAIKES,  RT.  HON.  CECIL,  307 
Raleigh,  Mrs  Cecil,  290 
Rehan,  Ada,  244 
Reid,  J.  Whitelaw,  123-4 
Reilly,  Dr,  74 

—  John  D.,  129 

—  Major,  129 

Richards,  John  Morgan,  258-61 

—  Mrs,  259-61 
Riddell,  Mr,  89 
Ridge,  W.  Pett,  245 
Ripon,  Lady,  223 

Robertson,  Graham,  151,  293,  314-5, 

335-7 

—  J.  Forbes,  242 
Robinson,  Mr,  94 
Roosevelt,  Miss,  312 
Rose,  see  Mortimer 
Rotterdam,  323-7 
Rowe,  Mrs  Jopling,  168 
Rudini,  Marquesa  di,  161-2,  168 
Russell,  Henry,  311 

—  Sir  Charles,  224 

Sx  HELIER,  see  Jeune 

Sala,  G.  A.,  162,  183-9 

Sally,  20-2 

Sargent,  John  S.,  280-1 

Schleswig-Holstein,  Prince  Christian 

of,  257-8 

Schreiner,  Olive,  301 
Schwalbach,  195 
Scott,  Clement,  269 

—  Sir  Walter,  279-80 
Severance,  Mark,  66 

Shaw,    G.    B.,    211,    217-22,    224, 

290 

Sheppard,  Governor  and  Mrs,  70 
Sidmouth,  335 
Slavery,  16-23 
Smiles,  Clement  Locke,  317 
Stahl,  Rose,  95-8 


352 


I  MYSELF 


Stalheim,  229 
Stansfeld,  James,  224 
Star,  The,  210-4 
Starkweather,  Miss,  181 
Stevenson,  Mrs,  69 

—  R.  L.,  279-80 
Stewart,  Admiral,  208 
Steiner,  Adele,  223,  225 
Stirling,  Mrs,  61 
Stoll,  Oswald,  314,  316 
Street,  George,  248 
Sunderland,  Dr  S.,  313-4 
Sutton,  Mr  and  Mrs  Bland,  313 

TAIT,  LAWSON,  178,  295 
Tate,  Fanny,  190 
Telegraph,  Daily,  308-9 
Teresa,  Sister,  137-40 
Terry,  Ellen,  297-9,  314 
Thackeray,  Wm.  M.,  56-8 
Thomas,  Brandon,  290 

—  Sue,  48 
Thompson,  Sir  H.,  243-4 

Tree,  Sir  H.  B.  and  Lady,  162,  224, 
314,  338 


VALE,  AGNES,  302-5 
Vanderbilts,  the,  1 10-1 
Vaughan,  Kate,  184 

WAITH,  MRS,  81 

Walker,  Mr,  304 

Ward,  Miss,  181 

Ward-Beecher,  Henry,  130-1,  149 

Weylan,  Edith,  316 

Whistler,  J.  M'N.,  162,  280 

White,  Lady,  181 

White  Plains  School,  6 1 

Whitman,  Walt,  81-4 

Wilde,  Oscar,  159,  224,  238 

William  (negro  slave),  23-4 

—  ("  buttons  "),  170-1 
Wittgenstein,  Princess,  257 
Wolff,  Johannes,  175-6,  225,  227-8, 

238,  286-7,  323 
Woolson,      Constance      Fenimore, 

H5 
Wyndham,  Sir  Chas.,  314 

YOUNG,  MR,  18-19 

—  Mrs,  65 


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